Luca POV
A row of button downs with a green and orange swirly pattern is the first thing I see upon being dragged back over to this area, by a small hand with a very strong grip.
Fucking Christ.
An increasingly appealing thought of throwing her over my shoulder and getting the fucking out of here stays present in my mind, as I genuinely begin to plan it out.
However, a tug at my wrist causes me to snap my gaze from the door and back to her, with a warning, aware glare on her face.
"I'll have my assistant ship my stuff here." I try, attempting to pull her towards the cashier and just buy her shit.
Her glower remains persistent as she narrows her eyes impossibly more. "What a marvelous idea. It's not like literally anyone could track that." She huffs sarcastically, her features working together to form a small frown.
"Fine." I grumble, knowing she's right. Unfortunately.
Her face slowly breaks into an excited grin, making the entire experience a little more tolerable.
I watch warily as she picks up another hamper-basket-thing and begins to walk down the aisle, thankfully passing those putrid khaki and burnt orange button downs. I reach over her shoulder to grab both baskets, hers in one hand and the current one in my other.
To my surprise she doesn't dispute it, ever so stubborn, but instead hums lightly to the song playing on the radio throughout the store, something about a getaway car and motel bar, as she runs her finger over a few gray button downs, stopping when she reaches some with a different set of colors.
She pulls one out, then turns to face me with the shirt lifted up a little in her arm and a few inches away from my torso. She cocks her head to the side, as if examining, before her green eyes flicker up to meet mine. "What size are you?" She questions, now pulling the corner of the shirt onto my shoulder and focusing her attention on that.
"Uh." I stammer, knowing damn well I have no fucking clue.
She rolls her eyes and shoves another of the exact same shirt into the basket, and turns back around. She picks out two t-shirts which are almost alarmingly akin to what I would buy normally.
Is she always this observant?
Hopefully she doesn't observe when I have a boner from the thought of her in a thon- "Dressing rooms." She demands, holding a basket with somehow almost a dozen more garments.
"Can I not just buy them all and donate the rest?" I grumble, yet continue to follow her determined path, which is now set towards a black-rimmed opening with 'dressing rooms' written in terrible and fake-fancy cursive.
She sends a pointed look over her shoulder, then simply rolls her eyes. "How charitable." She mocks as we come to a halt in the dressing room line.
Some lady is appointing people to rooms, flinging her arms all around and shouting at people excruciatingly loudly.
A rack of discarded clothes is positioned on the left of the line section, really not organized at all. I hear Ivy gasp from below and in front of me, before she reaches out and grabs some brown clear shirt-thing, "This would look so cute on Clem." She exclaims, holding the piece up to examine it.
