Miss Zhao couldn't care less who had shoved that book into Dong Chenglang's hands.
Right now she was so shy she didn't even dare look Dong Chenglang in the eye.
Her mother had stuffed a copy of that book into her hands last night too; she hadn't dared read it, and who would've thought she'd see it again now.
She lowered her head and shoveled rice into her mouth.
Dong Chenglang itched to grab Miss Zhao's head and straighten it up—he was telling the truth, he really wasn't lying to her.
But he only dared think it; he didn't dare do it.
Staring at that book without a name on the cover, Dong Chenglang's head started to ache.
Then he glanced at the wedding dress Miss Zhao was wearing; the heat in his face cooled a little, but in his heart it felt like a feather was teasing him there, tickling and itchy.
Shy about what?
What is there to be shy about?
They'd already bowed to Heaven and Earth; they were husband and wife now.
Reading this kind of book wasn't such a big deal.
