“Are you glaring or staring?” he shouted over the deafening music when she remained rooted on the spot, watching him. “Neither,” she shouted back. “Admiring?” “Wishing.” “Wishing for what?” “For you to take a tumble down those stairs,” she muttered to herself, and then offered him the sweetest fake smile she could muster when he looked at her over his shoulder. To her chagrin, he offered her a real one back. “Heard that.”
