Bob winced when the ice made contact with his aching toes. He quickly adjusted to the cold sensation and relaxed. Francesca apologized over and over as she gently pressed the ice pack against his foot.
"It's alright," Bob said. "I've been through this sort of situation before. These full feet can be a curse as well as a blessing."
"I'm not a very good dancer," Francesca murmured, pressing another ice pack against Bob's right foot.
"Nor am I," Bob admitted. "Little accidents like this put me off from practicing. And before you apologize again, Francesca, I just want you to know something: you're the first dance partner I've had who has cared enough to do this." He waved his hand at the ice packs that rested against his feet; the pain was quickly going away.
Francesca rose to meet Bob's eyes and fluttered her lashes. "I hope that's not just something you say to every woman who steps on your toes."
Only Francesca could make a sentence like that sound bewitching.
"Trust me," Bob said, "I don't." He was thinking of Selma Bouvier, and how Selma always expected him to tend to her needs, and her vile feet. She'd never returned the favour.
"We could always practice together," Francesca crooned, taking both of Bob's hands.
Bob wondered if that was a double entendre, or if Francesca really did want to just practice dancing. Either way, he wasn't about to complain.