"I'm not buying you another black dress."
I looked up from the rack to find Nathan leaning against a mannequin, arms crossed, wearing that expression that said he was already regretting agreeing to come shopping with me.
"It's not black," I protested, holding up the dress in question. "It's charcoal."
"Babe. That's black."
"It's charcoal gray with subtle—"
"You have fourteen black dresses at home. Fourteen. I counted."
I put the dress back with a sigh. He wasn't wrong. My closet looked like I was perpetually prepared for a funeral or a very depressing cocktail party.
"Fine. What do you suggest?"
Nathan pushed off the mannequin and walked over, his eyes scanning the racks with surprising focus. For a software engineer who lived in hoodies and jeans, he had annoyingly good taste when
