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“There's a dress code.”

Of course, there is.

“Black tie?”

“Yes, but there's a theme. The event is raising awareness and money for several environmental initiatives. Green is encouraged.”

“Green.”

“Emerald would suit you.”

I look at him. He says it so matter-of-factly. Like he's already imagined me wearing it.

Do not think about that.

“Unfortunately, I didn't give you enough warning yesterday,” he continues. “That's my mistake. So, if it's okay with you, I'll foot the bill for whatever you need.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Damn right you will.”

His mouth curves. I give him my best attitude right back. Because attitude is easier than admitting my stomach is currently tying itself into knots.

Black tie.

Designer department store.

Formal gown.

Just fucking wonderful.

I'm a size sixteen on a good day. But formal dresses? Those sadistic fuckers operate under their own mathematical system.

A sixteen becomes an eighteen. An eighteen becomes a twenty. And sometimes a twenty looks at my ass and simply says, Nice try, bitch.

Then there are my breasts. They're great breasts.

I mean, I like them. And men have historically been enthusiastic about them.

Formalwear designers? Not so much.

Apparently women requiring evening gowns are supposed to possess breasts approximately the size and density of two decorative macarons.

I know how this goes.

The racks get thinner. The salespeople get less enthusiastic. Someone suggests a shawl.

My teeth catch my lower lip.

Stop.

It's clothes.

Fabric and thread.

You've interviewed senators without blinking.

You can buy a fucking dress.