Chapter 9
Lesson 9: Dress for the job you want, but avoid aspirational underwear.
Bridget Jones Tally:
impure thoughts—6? no, 8
I put my top back on, walked a few doors over, and rapped quietly at his door before heading back toward my room. He came
out, buttoning his shirt back up and calling softly after me.
“Alice? What’s the matter?”
“I need help,” I slurred in a stage whisper as I walked back to my room, leaving the door open behind me. I didn’t want to
have to explain in the hall. Also, I knew it would annoy him to have to follow without an explanation, and this brought an
added bonus to the situation.
When he walked in, I was already unbuttoning my jeans. A dark flash of something indiscernible crossed his face. Then his
brow furrowed, and a sudden frown made his mouth austere.
I laughed and then started hiccupping. “Look at you! Oh, don’t be such a prude. It’s nothing lascivious .” I drew out the word, teasing him. “I just need help getting undreshed.” I hiccupped again. “That’sall.”
“You said you needed help. Is this what you meant?” Not moving an inch closer, he stretched an arm against the doorjamb and
gave me a steely look.
“Well, I can’t go to bed with one boot and muddy clothes on, can I?” My diaphragm betrayed me with another hiccup. “My jeans
are wet, and it hurts to bend my knee, and I think... hiccup . I think a scab healed over with my jeans attached, and I can’t pull ’em off.”
He said nothing.
“It hurts,” I added for good measure.
“We’ll have to get one of the ladies... I’ll wake Helena.”
“No, don’t wake anyone. It’s late, and they’re sleeping. I’d rather juss stay awake all night than drag Helena outta bed and
make her pull the dirty scab off my knee. I may as well ask the queen to floss my teeth!” I waved my arm theatrically and
punctuated it with another hiccup for emphasis. He looked unmoved. “Look. I need a favor. I’m asking you... Please.”
He let out a big sigh and walked over. “Fine. I’ll have a look at your knee, at least.”
“Well, close the door. I can’t just get undressed with the door open.”
“No.” His tone told me there would be no argument.
He turned on the bedside lamp, pushed me carefully by my hips back against the tall bed, and kneeled down to take a look at
the wound. He worked his fingers into the ripped hole in the denim and tried to pull it away to get a better look, but stopped
at a hiss from me.
“Okay. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a glass of cool water and a warm, damp face cloth. “Drink this, all of it, and don’t move your leg.” His com manding tone made my stomach flutter. He gave me a look of warning as if he expected me not to listen, but I was far more biddable when drunk.
He knelt down and held the warm cloth against my knee with a firm hand. His other hand cupped around the back of my leg to
keep me still. It warmed my whole body through. I sank further back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the moment. He began very
gently to wipe at the wound with the cloth, pulling the denim away little by little. It didn’t hurt so much now, and it was
over quickly. He stuck his fingers in the hole of the cloth and tested again, finding that it pulled away easily.
“Can you do the rest from here?”
“Nope. It hurts to bend my knee.”
He searched my face before letting out a reluctant sigh. “Right.” He crossed over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room
into near darkness. Only the soft light of the hallway helped us make out the shape of each other.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh.” He shushed me for the second time in as many days. But this time it sounded different.
He was very careful getting my boot off. Then he stepped closer and put his hands on my hips. “Stand straight for me.” He
pulled me a few inches away from the bed and put my hands on his shoulders to steady me. I caught the smell of him—spicy and
warm, like the woods after a summer rain.
I had already unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and he curled his fingers under the waistband and started to pull them down.
In a frantic moment of dread, I remembered I had worn my red thong to avoid any visible panty lines, and wished fervently
that I had worn something with full-cheek coverage. Oops , I thought, and then giggled a little.
“Quit that.”
With his hands on either side of me, careful not to pull my underwear down with the jeans, his fingers moved between my skin and the tight denim as he slid them slowly down my body. I felt his warm breath on my exposed thighs. My pulse raced while everything else in the world slowed down, each second playing out languidly—strong hands, slow breaths, exposed skin.
The muscles of his broad shoulders shifted under my hands as he knelt in front of me, his face, his mouth, so close. Electricity
combed over my skin with a sharp, almost painful scratch and settled with a live current at my middle.
I hadn’t realized it would be like this. I hadn’t meant to feel this way. Thank God the lights were off so he couldn’t see
the longing written across every line of my face.
When he got to my knee, he stopped and stretched the leghole wide so that it didn’t scrape against my wound as he pulled the
jeans further down. Both hands slid over the long length of calf before releasing one leg, then the next. Then he stood up
and pushed me carefully back against the bed, folded my jeans, and put them aside.
“Thank God.” My voice was a throaty sigh.
Rather than me clambering into bed with one straight leg, showcasing my thong-clad behind in the scuffle, he sat me on the
bed, picked up both legs, and swung them easily up to the mattress. He put me under the covers and made sure that I was decent
before turning the lamp back on. The smell of him was an opiate.
“I’m gonna get you another glass of water.”
I nodded.
After returning with the water, he instructed me to drink, then untucked the sheets from the bottom of the bed and folded them up to expose my legs to the knees, keeping the rest modestly covered. With the light on and the jeans off, he brought the warm cloth back to my skin to wash the wound, carefully wiping away bits of dirt and fuzz from the open sore. I closed my eyes and forgot everything else.
“You smell like... a really sexy lumberjack.”
He looked up at me for a moment, taken by surprise. Then all the worry and seriousness that had tightened the lines of his
face and body suddenly melted away. His shoulders began to shake. A quiet chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. I was laughing
too. Then I collapsed back on the pillows and covered my eyes with a hand while I gave in.
We said nothing else. He carried on cleaning my knee and laughing to himself. It was so blissful being looked after that I
drifted off to sleep, and stirred only when I heard the latch of the door close softly behind him.
“Thank you,” I whispered, but he was already gone.