Page 2 of Lonesome Man (The Smith Brothers #4)

Chapter Two

Libby

The small plane tilted to the side as it lined up with the runway, a stretch of field that seemed way too freaking short to me. The pilot, a huge guy named Cash, who’d said very little the entire way, wasn’t helping my nerves any.

Nope, the butterflies in my belly were off the freaking charts. You need to get it the hell together.

My client had changed his requirements from previous visits. This time he didn’t just want the girlfriend experience, he wanted me to pretend I was his wife —a wife he planned to knock up. He wanted family vibes, affection, love, kisses, and lots of sex.

No, he didn’t want me to dance for him or do freaky stuff in the bedroom, but for the next two weeks he did want me to pretend I was his.

He wanted me to walk off this plane and greet him as if I already knew him intimately. His time was precious. He treated himself to this experience once a year; the rest of that time he was alone. He didn’t have the luxury of getting to know yous and wooing or whatever.

It would require a lot of role-play on my part, but I was an actor who excelled at improv, which was how I finally got Jess to relent.

I could totally do this. I could give him what he wanted.

So no, when I saw him for the first time, I couldn’t be shy or awkward, I had to be excited.

This wasn’t two people meeting each other for the first time, this was a reunion.

I clicked open the last file from Jessica, the one that I hadn’t looked at yet.

This one had the important details, like name, age, and a photo.

I’d deliberately chosen not to look until now, so I wouldn’t have time to talk myself out of it.

There would be no backing out if I saw him and he wasn’t my type or he didn’t meet some preconceived ideas I’d formed.

I couldn’t risk doing that, but I was only human.

My type shouldn’t and couldn’t factor into this, which is why I chose to wait until there was no opportunity to change my mind. Plus, this was how improv worked, no time to prepare, to overthink and get myself in knots and screw things up. I worked better this way.

My ears popped as the plane turned almost all the way on its side.

I bit back my shriek before Cash, thankfully, pulled out of the turn and began our descent.

I slid my phone into my pocket so I could grip the safety harness as we flew at speed toward a field.

I squeezed my eyes closed, then sucked in a breath as the wheels finally touched the ground and bounced along the runway.

The plane had barely stopped before Cash opened the cockpit door, jumped down, and rounded the nose of the aircraft.

He hadn’t turned the engine off, and the propeller was still spinning as he opened my door, unbuckled my seat belt, and lifted me down like a sack of potatoes, planting me on my feet.

He then grabbed my bags and carried them to the side of the runway.

He strode back, while I looked around me.

“Stand over there, Ruth,” he yelled over the engine noise. “He’ll drive up once I’m back in the plane.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks, Cash.” Ruth was my nom de plume, not that Libby was super unique, but I didn’t want to risk using my own name. In the brief it said he’d have another name for me while we role-played, which I guess I’d find out when I met him.

Cash’s lips curled in a half smile, and he gave me a chin lift. I hustled out of the way as he got back in the cockpit, and I watched as he swung the small plane around, then headed back down the runway.

I quickly tapped on my phone screen to open it so I could get the guy’s name—nothing happened. Crap . My phone was dead.

The far-off sound of a revving engine grew louder, and I lifted my hand to shield my eyes as a truck appeared in the distance, heading toward me.

Oh shit, here he comes. And now I had no idea what he looked like or even his freaking name.

Thankfully I did know that if he was wearing something black, or we were in bed, I was to be in character unless he indicated otherwise.

When we weren’t in play, it was up to me whether we did anything sexual.

His brief also said he wanted to jump straight into it the first day, so I was prepared for that at least.

I didn’t need his name. I could get by without it, right? I was his wife, I’d use an endearment. At least until I charged my freaking phone.

Taking a deep breath, I shoved down my nerves and let my character take over. I was a young woman separated for several months from the man she loved, now finally they were going to be together again. She can’t wait to touch him, kiss him, just be with him. It wasn’t hard to get into character.

I told myself my fear over the unknown was excitement, and I let the flutters in my belly, and the throb of my pulse, fill me with anticipation. I was a wife, overflowing with the joy of seeing the man I loved again after so long without him.

The truck stopped and the door opened.

He got out.

Holy fuck .

My mind went blank and my heart felt as if it stuttered to a stop in my chest before bursting back to life.

Oh fuck, I knew him.

Tucker.

Holy shit, it was Tucker Smith.

We’d been introduced through a program for homeschooled kids, and because of how isolated we were, with no cell or internet service, we’d talked over two-way radio every Friday for years, until I’d gone to college, then we’d mainly emailed, but there’d been the odd phone call as well.

He’d been my best friend, my only friend, then as we’d gotten older…

My stomach churned and guilt slammed through me.

He’d never seen my face, not really. The one photo he had seen of me, I’d been looking down, my hair obscuring most of my face, but I’d seen him. I knew what he looked like, every chiseled inch of that handsome face.

My junior year of college, there’d been an article published online about his woodwork, how he was selling to some exclusive stores in the city and making waves from his remote homestead in the mountains. I’d teased him about it—and had fallen even more in love with him than I’d already been.

We hadn’t talked in four years though. I’d pulled back—I’d ghosted him because I was a goddamn coward.

Now Tucker, my Tucker, was striding toward me, in the flesh, tall and built and utterly freaking gorgeous.

And yes, he was wearing a black T-shirt under his jacket.

My heart slammed into the back of my ribs and my knees went weak.

His gaze did a sweep of me from head to feet and his lips curled up in a gorgeous smile.

Would he be able to recognize me from that one shitty photo I’d sent him?

Would he recognize my voice? We hadn’t talked over the phone much after I went to college because the cell and internet services were patchy out here, but it was still possible.

My feet were moving before I knew what I was doing. I ran at him and jumped. He caught me, his low chuckle lifting goose bumps across my skin as he held me close.

For so many years I’d wondered what it would feel like to be in this man’s arms. I wrapped my arms and legs around him. “Tuck,” I said breathlessly. He was huge and muscled and smelled like pine and sexy mountain man. I needed to tell him who I was. I needed to tell him the truth?—

“Libby, baby,” he said roughly, one hand on my ass, the other sliding into my hair. “You’re finally here, darlin’.”

The sound of a record scratching filled my head. Libby? Did he just call me Libby? Yes. Yes, he freaking did. He knew who I was. Oh god, he knew it was me.

He fisted my hair lightly, while my mind spun wildly. I lifted my head. His green eyes met mine, glittering, filled with pleasure, with heat. “Missed my little wife,” he said.

My breath caught and my stomach sank. He looked right at me without a scrap of recognition, and it was as if I’d been punched in the chest.

He had no idea who I was. He was playing a part, my husband—and he’d chosen Libby, my name , as the name of his fictional wife.

Holy fuck.

He wasn’t forcing me closer, but he wanted it. He wasn’t going to force anything if I wasn’t into it, even though I was bought and paid for.

He was waiting, so I did what any wife would do, what I’d desperately wanted to do since I was thirteen years old—what any woman would, faced with a husband this beautiful and missing him badly—I kissed him. I wrapped my arms around him tighter and kissed the hell out of him.

I kissed Tucker Smith.

My Tucker.

He spun, pressing me against the side of the truck, his mouth opening over mine. His beard tickled as his tongue swept inside my mouth, and he tasted like peppermint and hunger, and I was instantly turned on. I’d imagined this moment for years, but this felt, god, so dirty and sexy and freeing.

Did this feel dishonest? Yes, but he never had to know it was me. He could never know it was me. Tucker had used my name, he’d called me his wife. He was pretending I was his wife.

I could never go back to living this kind of life, so secluded, which was why I’d pulled away when he asked me to come and stay with him several years ago, why I’d convinced myself I wasn’t in love with him when he asked me to give this thing between us a go.

But he didn’t want anyone permanent, either.

Right? That was why he did this. That’s why he stuck to escorts now.

If he knew it was me, everything would get complicated, messy. Not only would it embarrass him, but I wasn’t sure he’d even want to see the real me, not after the way I ended things between us. He’d brought someone out here to be with him because he wanted a fantasy, not the real Libby.

This was all we could ever have had, and by some miracle the universe had found a way to give it to me, to us.