Snowbound in Her Boss's Bed, page 9
Benjamin’s home really was comfortable—all the way down to the little details.
When she had first laid eyes on its monstrous size, she had thought there was no way it could be comfortable.
A structure so large would have had to be strange and cavernous, she’d thought, more like an industrial warehouse than a home, but it wasn’t so.
He had just made sure that all of the regular elements that made a building a home—windows, rugs, linens, pillows—were oversize and over-the-top to match.
Without a change in clothes, or her sleep bonnet, she had piled her hair up in a high bun and stripped down to her camisole to sleep in. As an option in a pinch, it had worked, but her hair would need some TLC when she got home, and her cami had definitely lost some of its shape through the night.
Maybe if she hadn’t spent so much time tossing and turning...
But it was no use grumbling.
Tossing and turning, alternating between wishing they hadn’t stopped and wishing they had stopped sooner was the obvious consequence of making out with your boss.
Padding over to the window, she took a deep breath and then reached out to take the curtain edges in her hands.
Flicking them open in sync with her exhale, she blinked against the sudden brightness in the room, squinting to limit the incoming light.
It was not a bright sun in a blue sky that had her wincing, though.
It was the continued whiteout of the blizzard.
She wouldn’t be going home quite yet.
And without the possibility of an impersonal exit, she was going to have to face Benjamin Silver again.
Heat flooded her face and neck.
Pressing cool palms first on her cheeks before moving to her forehead and neck, she sighed.
It was her own fault.
I should have had more self-control, and word-control, and body-control...
There was no point in delaying it further, though.
Her time would be better used putting herself together to face the day, at least as best as she could.
Without her hot-air brush, flat iron or any hair product, there wasn’t going to be a lot she could do about her curled and lifted baby hairs and added volume.
Yesterday she had done her usual morning routine and had arrived at the meeting with her normal office look of glossy soft curls—exactly so because she gave herself a mini blowout every morning before leaving the house and didn’t skimp on the sheen spray before she used her flat iron to create soft wave curls that framed her face, neck and shoulders.
Taking her clothes into the adjacent bathroom, Miri flipped on the light and took in her sleep-messy bun and lace cami-clad reflection.
She looked like she had spent the night before making out with a man in front of a fireplace.
Her hair was going to require some creativity.
Rummaging through her purse back in the room, she found a few bobby pins and a small tin of cocoa butter she kept on hand to use as a quick moisturizer.
She used the cocoa butter to moisten the soft curling hairs that framed her face before twisting sections in the front back and away from her face, fixing it with the bobby pins just above her ears.
She repeated the process for the other side and smiled at the result in the mirror.
It wasn’t the polished shine she normally liked to present at the office, but it was at least appropriate.
She didn’t look like she was trying to seduce anyone.
A knock sounded at her door while she took advantage of the bathroom’s complimentary toothbrushes.
Jumping, she paused mid-brush to say, “Just a minute.”
As she moved, however, a giant dollop of sudsy toothpaste fell out of her mouth and straight down her chin and front, leaving a streak of white froth in its wake.
Fortunately, the disaster had missed her cardigan.
Unfortunately, it had missed neither her camisole nor her button-up blouse.
Double unfortunate was the fact that both were made of silk and would most definitely reveal the disaster—even if she managed to get the white discoloration from the toothpaste out.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself, reaching for a nearby washcloth to dab at the toothpaste residue.
She didn’t have time to take it off and rinse it out because there was someone at the door.
Left with long streaks of darkened and wet fabric down her front, she quickly managed to get most of the dregs of toothpaste out, but could still make out a faint chalky discoloration through the fabric.
It was the best she could do for now, though.
Rushing to the door, she was slightly out of breath when she opened the door. “Sorry. I was in the bathroom.”
On the other side of the door, Benjamin’s assistant gave her a flat once-over, but said nothing to that. “Saw the light beneath the door and figured you were up. Breakfast will be ready soon. It’ll be in the formal dining room, down this hall and to the left. Think you can make it there on your own?”
Miri nodded, gifted with a natural sense of direction as well as intimidated by Benjamin’s assistant.
A tiny smile cracking her mountain-like face, the assistant nodded. “Good. Mr. Silver is waiting.”
And then she turned on her heel and left.
For a moment, Miri stood in the doorway, staring after her.
And then she forced herself to pull it together and go out and face the day.
Mr. Silver was waiting.
* * *
Benjamin arrived first in the dining room, pleased at the spread laid out on the table. As pleasurable as their forbidden kiss had been, the sight before him was somewhat of a relief.
Breakfast was more akin to what he had meant when he’d told Miri that he would take care of her.
Growing up in Los Angeles had made him partial to farm-fresh fruit and vegetables, as well as avocados, and so he had had a state-of-the-art greenhouse installed on the estate and manned it with a staff of master gardeners.
Spending as many years in Colorado as he had now, he also had an appreciation for fresh beef and lamb—and had established an annual contract with a local rancher to buy a guaranteed percentage of his product each year to ensure he had ample supply.
Between those arrangements and the poultry contract he had with a local organic farmer, Benjamin’s table was always fresh, vibrant and flavorful—just like he liked it.
This morning was no exception.
Two enormous omelets with fresh goat cheese and basil rested in the large heated dish that was centered between the nearest two end seats of the long wooden table. The table was the focal point of the formal dining room, which, like most of the other rooms in his home, faced enormous picture windows that currently showcased the blizzard.
Around the scramble were platters of fresh fruit, bagels and lox with trimmings, rosemary lamb breakfast sausages, and large mimosas made with orange juice squeezed fresh.
A coffee and tea tray had been rolled out and prepared for them as well, and he was pleased with his staff’s presentation.
Regardless of her dietary preferences, she could find something to her liking among the spread.
Rather than sit and wait for her arrival at the table and allowing the moment and his anticipation to build toward the impact of seeing her walk in, he stood beside the fireplace—within which blazed another large fire—and watched the storm outside.
Storms, if not this strong, and well-laid fires were common features of his time spent in Colorado.
Miri was not.
In fact, as the years had gone by, company of any sort—regardless of whether it was here or in California—had become more and more rare.
As he had aged, surrounding himself with people had become less and less effective at disguising the fact that at the end of the day, the only people who cared very deeply about him were shareholders.
People were wrong when they said it was lonely on the top.
It was lonely no matter where one stood if one stood without family.
But here, lost in the woods, loneliness could also be peaceful.
It could be normal.
That did not stop him from turning, though, at the sound of Miri’s heels clicking against the hardwood floors.
She wore her clothes from yesterday, of course, but she had changed her hair.
She had pulled it back on either side, revealing cute rounded ears and giving an overall impression of a medieval princess.
She was as striking as she had been the previous day, but softer and sweeter somehow as well.
Or perhaps the softening owed nothing to her clever remixing and everything to do with the fact that he had had her in his arms the night before.
He had clearly spent enough time this morning recalling the more licentious portions of their evening to be struck by her walking through the door.
It was a startling moment when a fantasy became real.
He wanted to touch and taste again what he had already thought too much about.
That was the problem with getting a taste. Once taken, it was hard to pull back.
He wanted to show her a good time again, the way he had last night—not with a lovely brunch but with his hands and mouth.
But today, the second day of not only Hanukkah but of being snowed in together as colleagues, needed to be a reset rather than a repeat.
He needed to keep his hands to himself and his thoughts aboveboard.
He needed to remember he couldn’t have her, even while she remained lush and vibrant and entirely entrancing.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling with a gesture toward the table. “As delicious as our dinner of doughnuts was, I thought this morning we might have a real meal.” He broke the seal on the topic of last night immediately and—he hoped—softly, in order to lance any potential for discomfort that might exist for her.
Unlike him, she had probably spent her night agonizing not over the fact that they had gone to bed in separate rooms, but because she had fraternized with her supervisor amid the fallout of a fraternization scandal.
He could expect no less.
She was smart and dedicated and clearly determined to keep her job.
He liked the idea of her burning for him more, though, and hoped that perhaps a small portion of her evening had included that.
“Good morning,” she replied with a blush and the kind of automatic politeness that told him she’d grown up in an “old-fashioned manners” kind of household. “This looks delicious.”
When her eyes fell to the mimosas, though, her voice filled with some of the sarcastic humor he had been introduced to last night.
Lifting a brow, she said, “I see you went with champagne instead of rosé this morning.”
Had he been a younger man, he might have said something about hair of the dog, but as she was not aware that he had had anything more than a respectable amount of rosé last night—nor why he might be inclined to do so—he merely smiled smoothly and said, “It complements freshly squeezed orange juice so well.”
The look she shot him communicated an eye roll without any such movement and he was happy they could engage this way following their encounter the previous night.
Some people would be too awkward.
He had known they could both be adults about things, that they could be friendly and cordial and still enjoy each other’s company and still maintain a courteous distance.
“Spoken like a typical rich man,” she teased, affirming his belief, before adding, “Regular people don’t drink fine champagne at every meal.”
He gave her a look of mock wounding before smiling and nodding. “It’s true. Regular people don’t drink fine champagne nearly enough. Have you heard the health benefits?”
She laughed out loud at that, the sound as warm and crackly as the fire, and his smile grew.
This was taking care of her—feeding her and making her laugh.
Not laying her down on the table and eating her like she was the meal.
This was what he would provide today.
Casual conversation, rather than confessions—of the private history variety and of the subjects of late-night tossing and turning.
They could make small talk and eat, and perhaps even pass some of the storm time quietly working together again.
She had what she needed from him for the gala, he knew, but his office was equipped so that almost anyone with a white-collar to-do list could work on-site.
And after all of that, hopefully the storm would be abated and he could send her back home knowing that while they may have pushed a few boundaries, there had been nothing more damaging done than a rather tame transgression.
His mind protested the word tame in respect to what had transpired between them the night before, but he fought it.
Her body in his hands might have proven to be even more decadent than it had promised to be, but in truth it had simply been a kiss.
One that he would will away if he had to.
Iron will—the kind he relied on to come back to a coding or engineering problem time and again until he had a solution—was the only thing that had stopped him from taking things further with her last night, as the taste of her had made him feel as if he had reverted to being a teenager.
She was responsive and active, full of brilliant heat and warmth, and a part of him would always feel like he had been a fool to let the opportunity to experience her pass him by.
Even if it was an opportunity that should never have arisen in the first place.
Thinking back on it, he could see that the beginning of everything had been bringing her out to Aspen.
He should never have done that.
It was too relaxed here, too at home and comfortable and isolated and natural for anything but actual intimacy.
Intimacy he’d had with Miri.
As soon as she arrived, it had been inevitable.
For his work to be truly creative, he needed an environment in which he could be himself, where he could free his mind and let his ideas roam without limitation.
Only in that space could he come up with the kinds of ideas that could change the world.
His home in Colorado was that place.
Miri’s visit—with its losing track of time and honest conversation and passionate embraces—had made it clear, though, that he was too comfortable here.
He was too soothed by his fires and sense of home to recall just how big a risk it was inviting anyone into that space.
By necessity, his guard was down here, and without a guard, it was hard to resist Miri.
Which he would do even if she wasn’t his subordinate at the foundation.
He wasn’t looking for the kinds of relationships that the comfort and ease of feeling at home created—which was what Miri’s very essence seemed to foster.
He appreciated women—fast-paced women who were not looking to settle down any more than he was—and casual friendships of the mutually beneficial variety that left everyone involved richer for the experience.
Usually, literally.
Unlike Miri, he was not interested in replacing the family he still missed.
As a child, he had lost not one, but two families.
The family of his birth he had lost to a car accident when he’d been just four years old.
Of them, he had only a few vague memories, warm and fuzzy images really, of a man and a woman, and scents that brought them back to mind.
That loss was scarred over and almost unfelt by now.
No, it had been the second time that his family had been stolen from him—fourteen years later when he’d lost his beloved adopted family—that had cauterized any urge in him to try again.
He refused to allow the opportunity for that kind of loss into his life again.
He did not want confidants.
He wanted meaningful work.
He did not need intimacy.
He had his fires.
He wanted to fulfill the promises he had made his parents and enjoy the fruits of his labor in peace.
And to that end, there would be no more inviting colleagues to Aspen.
His compound would return to being solely his private retreat. Anything else risked the kind of feelings he refused to welcome back into his life.
And yet when he had been alone, after Miri had gone to bed last night, with just the remnants of the doughnut box and her empty rosé glass to remind him that he had spent most of his day with a woman he had only just met—even going so far as to lose track of time with her—it had not been regret that he felt.
Or rather, it had been, but not regret that he had brought her into his sanctuary.
It had been regret that he hadn’t taken her back to his room.
Last night he had been willing to admit that he had enjoyed her company.
Today, however, he would remember the fact that he was not allowed to.
He might be one of the richest men in the world but enjoying Miri’s company in any way beyond the brunch they shared now or long planning meetings could get her fired.
And entirely willing to blame the truth of it on Colorado, he already cared enough about her that he couldn’t let that happen.
They ate in relative quiet for most of the meal, each enjoying the well-made feast in front of them, with a brief moment in which they each paused to gaze into the incredible storm outside.
“Doesn’t seem like it’s letting up any,” she said quietly, and he shook his head.
“No, it doesn’t, and neither is it predicted to anytime soon,” he replied.
Moistening her lips, she opened them to say, “It’s incredible. So powerful. Able to make it seem like the entire world has disappeared.”
She was right, he thought, responding to her words with a nod as he, too, stared at the force outside.
It was easy to imagine the estate was a world of its own—and they the only people in it.
