Page 70 of Snowbound in Her Boss's Bed

CHAPTER TEN

“WE’RECOOKING?”MIRIASKED, staring at the apron that Benjamin had just placed in her still-outstretched hand.

It was the third night of Hanukkah, the second since they’d made love, and they had just finished lighting the candles.

Like the oil and miracle of light, they would be lovers until the storm blew over.

And true to his word, Benjamin had been attentive about lighting them with her this evening—this time they even got through the blessings without devouring each other.

He had been serious when he’d said that until the storm ended, he wanted to experience everything with her.

It was phenomenal just how much progress they had already made toward that goal.

This far into the second day of making love to Benjamin Silver, she was even getting used to the fact that her cheeks heated every time she thought of it now.

In the less than twenty-four hours since they’d broken the seal on lovemaking, they’d spent so much time engaged in activities that were erotically sensual that it was a wonder she had not burned completely to ash.

But currently, their Hanukkah candles flickering stoutly on the fireplace mantel, bedroom activities were not on their agenda.

Right now, they were cooking.

“Correct,” he affirmed, tying his own apron as he answered her question. “I gave the kitchen staff the night off and ran up and found my old family recipes while you took your post-skating nap,” he explained.

He conveniently labeled it a post-skating nap, when in fact, it had been a post-afternoon-lovemaking nap.

He had drawn her from the rink back to his bedroom, where he’d worshipped her with a new kind of tenderness and fervor, going soft and slow and drawing the pleasure out until neither could take it any longer before he drove them both passionately over the edge.

They had fallen together that time, and afterward, he had gently kissed her lips and eyelids before cradling her in his arms like a treasure.

She had fallen asleep warm and safely secure there, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

And when she’d padded back out to find him where she expected—the sitting area with a roaring fire burning—he’d handed her an apron.

“We’re making latkes!” he added, gathering ingredients now. “And a brisket.”

“Your mom’s recipe?” she asked as she began to tie her own apron.

She recalled teasing him about it the night before, that only his mother’s recipe would satisfy, but he shook his head.

“My grandmother’s,” he corrected.

Miri rolled her eyes with a snort. “Same difference.”

Grinning, he gave in easily with a nod. “Same difference. I’m sure it was her grandmother’s before that, too, back in the old country.”

It was a common story, to have heritage dating back to the old country, but Miri wondered if he appreciated it.

Growing up, her family Bible held a handwritten record of her family’s genealogy—at least her dad’s side—but there wasn’t much beyond that. They had no wealth of old recipes and photographs to tie them to their history, like Benjamin.

“And what old country is that?” she asked, curious to know the story that had led to him.

Setting her up with onions and a cutting board before he replied, Benjamin began grating potatoes and said, “Ukraine and Eastern Russia. I’m Ashkenazi on all sides, biological and adopted, though my mom, the woman who raised me, I mean, was born in China.”

“China?” Miri asked, trying to make sense of it all.

“My adoptive family fled Eastern Europe early, before World War II, going east and eventually making their way to the US through China and San Francisco, as opposed to Ellis Island. Because of that, my mom was born in the Jewish quarter of old Shanghai.”

“Fascinating,” Miri uttered, placing a wet paper towel on her cutting board to save her eyes from the onion. “And what about your biological family? How do you know about them?”

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