“It's better,” smiled Missy wanly. It wasn't better, in fact, but a headache isn't without its advantages when it makes a young man forsake dancing to be solicitous.
“Sure it's better?”
“Sure,” replied Missy, her smile growing a shade more wan.
“Because if it isn't—” Mr. Briggs began to rub his palms together briskly—“I've got electricity in my hands, you know. Maybe I could rub it away.”
“Oh,” said Missy.
Her breathing quickened. The thought of his rubbing her headache away, his hands against her brow, was alarming yet exhilarating. She glanced up as she felt him removing the towel from her head, then quickly down again. She felt, even though her face was already fiery hot, that she was blushing. She was embarrassed, her head was racking, but on the whole she didn't dislike the situation. Mr. Briggs unlinked his cuffs, turned back his sleeves, laid his palms on her burning brow, and began a slow, pressing movement outward, in both directions, toward her temples.
“That feel good?” he asked. “Yes,” murmured Missy. She could scarcely voice the word; for, in fact, the pressure of his hands seemed to send those horrible weights joggling worse than ever, seemed to intensify the uneasiness in her throat—though she wouldn't for worlds let Mr. Briggs think her unappreciative of his kindness.
The too-kind hands stroked maddeningly on.
“Feel better now?”
“Yes,” she gasped.