Resisting Mr. Tall, Dark & Texan. Christine Rimmer

spend more time on it, go over the books thoroughly, meet with the general manager, tour every inch of the property—all before we get down to giving a yes or a no.”

      Pete nodded. “I know you will.” And then he started in about Ethan’s plans to expand into shale oil extraction once he got to Montana. Same old yadda yadda. Extracting oil from shale was cost-prohibitive. The environmental impact wasn’t good. As always, Pete reiterated all the drawbacks he’d reiterated any number of times before.

      Patiently, Ethan reminded him that the higher the cost per barrel of oil, and the more depleted the oil reserves, the better it looked to be investing in oil shale. He reminded his stepdad yet again that the technology for extraction was constantly improving and TOI didn’t want to end up behind the curve on this.

      Eventually, Pete ran out of red flags on that subject. They finished their lunch and parted in the club parking lot, where Ethan submitted to another big hug.

      “I know I tend to be a little overcautious,” Pete said when he let Ethan loose. “But I want you to know that I—and your mother, too, of course—not only love you and wish we could keep you right here in Midland forever. We also realize you have to get out there and break some new ground. And we admire the hell out of you for that, son.”

      The smile Ethan gave his stepdad then had nothing but love in it. “Thanks, Pete. In some ways, you were always way ahead of the rest of us. It took me a while to appreciate how far ahead.”

      Pete was looking a little misty-eyed. “See you at the board meeting.”

      “Yeah, see you then.”

      Ethan went back to the office.

      Big mistake. Lizzie was waiting.

      She rose from her desk as he approached his office door, blew a strand of almost-blond hair out of her eye and tried to get his attention. “Ethan, I—”

      “Not now, Lizzie. I’ve got important calls to make.”

      “But—”

      “Later. Soon.” He pushed open his door, went through and shut it behind him. Fast.

      He spent the next few hours answering phone messages, dealing with email and clearing his desk as much as possible, because he—and Lizzie, too, whether she was willing to admit it yet—would be on their way to Thunder Canyon bright and early Thursday morning.

      The board of directors meeting was happening down in the main conference room. That meant he had to leave the safety of his office and get past Lizzie again.

      No problem. He waited to go until she actually had to buzz him to remind him of the meeting.

      And then he flew past her desk with a “Hold any messages. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

      She didn’t even look up. She knew there was no chance they would be discussing unpleasant subjects again that day.

      The meeting included a catered meal and was over at a little after eight. No way was he going home that early. Not with Lizzie, who was both his assistant and his live-in housekeeper, lying in wait for him there.

      So he called a couple of friends and they went out for a beer. The bar had the Rangers game on the big screens. Ethan stayed to watch them beat the Angels five to four.

      By then it was after eleven. One of his buddies invited everyone to his place for a final round. Ethan went. And he was the last to leave.

      He didn’t pull into the driveway of his four-thousand-square-foot house in a newer, gated subdivision until after two. All seemed quiet, only the outside lights were on. It looked to him as if Lizzie had given up on him and gone to bed.

      Terrific.

      Very quietly, he let himself into the utility room from the garage. Lizzie’s rooms were on the ground floor, in the back, not all that far from the garage entrance, so he took extra care not to make a sound. Everything was dark and quiet and the house smelled faintly of baked goods.

      His mouth watered. Cookies? No. It smelled more like … muffins. Maybe blueberry. He really loved Lizzie’s blueberry muffins. In fact, he could use one right now.

      Following his nose, he tiptoed down the short back hallway toward the dark kitchen.

      He got one foot beyond the doorway when the kitchen lights popped on. He blinked against the sudden brightness and growled, “Lizzie, what the hell?”

      “Ethan, there you are.” She stood by the island, wearing a very patient expression and a robe that looked as if it might have been made from some old lady’s bedspread. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get home.” The muffins were on the counter, behind her, looking all fat and golden and tempting. “This is getting ridiculous. You realize that, right?”

      “Are those blueberry?”

      She nodded, but she didn’t step aside so he could grab one. “We need to talk.” A weary sigh escaped her. “You want some coffee?”

      He had that sinking feeling. She was determined to leave him. He knew that. She had a dream and she wouldn’t let go of it. And he was running out of ways to avoid having to let her go. “I shouldn’t have paid you so well,” he grumbled. “You saved too much, too fast.”

      She shrugged. “You couldn’t help it. You’re a generous man.” She looked down at her feet, which were stuck in a pair of floppy terry-cloth slippers the same old-lady blue as her robe. “You’ve been so good me. When my dad died … I don’t know if I could have made it without you.” Slowly, she lifted her head and they looked at each other.

      He gave in. “Okay. Coffee.”

      She knew he was no fan of decaf, but coffee kept him awake when he drank it at night, so she brewed decaf anyway. That was the thing about Lizzie. She knew what he wanted—and what he needed—without his having to tell her.

      He took a muffin, grabbed a napkin and sat down at the table by the dark bow window. She used the single-cup maker, so the decaf was ready in no time. She set it down in front of him. He waited until she took the chair across the table before he broke off a hunk of the muffin and put it in his mouth.

      Fat blueberries and that sweet, buttery, pale yellow muffin. How was it that Lizzie’s muffins always managed to be light and substantial, both at once? Delicious. Lizzie’s muffins—like her cookies and her cakes, her pies and the fat loaves of bread she baked—always made him feel good. Satisfied. Happy with the world and his place in it.

      At home.

      Yeah. That was it. Lizzie made him feel at home.

      She said, “I’ve been thinking about that severance bonus you mentioned.”

      He ate another bite, savoring it, before he spoke. “Three months, it’s yours.”

      She shook her head. “It’s just too long.”

      “Two, then.” He pulled out all the stops and put on a sad, pleading expression. “Two months. Lizzie, you’ve got to give me a little time …”

      A little time. Who did he think he was kidding?

      There was only one Lizzie. She made it possible for him to lead exactly the life he enjoyed—no commitments, no strings. He worked hard and played hard, and when he got home, there was no one there nagging him. Just the sweet smell of something baking in the oven and Lizzie offering a nightcap. Or a bedtime cup of decaf and a fat blueberry muffin.

      He not only needed to keep her from quitting, but he also needed to find a way to make her see that opening a bakery was a dream best left to die a natural death. He needed her to keep working for him. And to keep being his live-in best friend.

      He picked up his coffee and sipped.

      Not much got by Lizzie. Now, she was studying him with pure suspicion in her eyes. “What kind of scheme are you hatching?”

      He