Lu Sheng simply didn't care that much anymore, kissing him right by the roadside, in the middle of the crowd.
At the entrance to the TV station, five people stood rooted to the spot.
Host Qin, responsible for the weather forecast, "I'm not seeing things, am I? Is that Mr. Zhou?"
Broad daylight, clear skies, Mr. Zhou wouldn't possibly be doling out public displays of affection; it must be a phantom limb—damn, I mean a hallucination!
Anchor Yang, responsible for social interviews, "You're not seeing things."
Anchor Yao rubbed the sleep from his eyes—damn, rubbed his eyes, in disbelief, "Holy moly! Mr. Zhou is actually getting cozy with a girl on the street, and here I thought he was the type to only meditate at home."
Zhou Qingrang was well-known in the TV station for being otherworldly, uninvolved in earthly affairs like dating; how could he possibly engage in such things?
Ah, the sun must have risen from the west today.
