Snow was staring at Chloé, and Chloé, frozen mid-step, clutched her bag against her like a shield.
Nash, for his part, scratched the back of his neck. He told himself his morning was about to get really interesting.
He saw exactly what Snow was seeing. A girl with messy hair, not a trace of makeup on her face, eyes still puffy because she'd just woken up. Her face was completely red, probably because she was embarrassed at having been caught. And the worst part was the Blacklist jersey she was wearing: the fabric slipped over her hips and fell almost to her thighs, hinting at her legs. And right next to her stood Nash, the guy she'd spent the previous night idolizing.
Taken separately, all of that could be explained. But together? It told a story, and it clearly wasn't the right one.
"You…" Snow started.
His voice was rusty; you could tell he'd spent hours yelling.
"Where were you?"
"Snow, listen, I can—"
"WHERE WERE YOU?"
