His left eyebrow lifts ever so slightly, as if he’s amused by my confusion. “I need a screwdriver.”
Screwdriver. Right.
“Well, we carry several brands and types, depending on the task you have in mind. We have flatheads, Phillips, torx, hex, Robertson, as well as some really good sets containing…”
I keep reciting the list of available tools and makers, words spilling out of my mouth in an endless torrent. My nerves are firing on all cylinders, and with every passing second, it feels as if my whole body is electrifying from the inside.
What is he doing here? There’s no way someone like him needs a hand tool out of the blue. Why is he looking at me like…that? Like…like he’s getting ready to pounce? And why does that look make those darn butterflies in my stomach flap harder?
“So, if you can tell me what you need it for, I can help you pick out the right one,” I finish in time with my heart rate reaching the summit of Everest.
Ruffo’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine as he leans to my left and plucks the closest screwdriver off the pegboard display of the cheapest tools in Walter’s store.
“This one will do.”
“That’s a T25 torx with a magnetic tip and nonslip handle.” I nod quickly. “Great choice. Amazing value for the money. Has a wide application range. You can use it to assemble furniture or to tighten fences, but it also works if you need to fix householdappliances. Computers. Or, uh, bikes.”Fixing bikes? God, I need to stop talking.“Or...or, you know, whatever needs fixing. It can do— If that’ll be all, I’ll just ring you up.”
A corner of his lips twitches. Is he trying not to laugh at me?
“That’s all, Little Iris.” His deep, velvety voice washes over me, making goose bumps break out across my flesh.
Thank God! Now, if I could just get him to step aside so I can get off this makeshift stand and—
“Don’t move.”
I freeze in response to the unexpected order. I don’t even get the chance to askwhybefore his screwdriver-holding hand swings toward my head. There’s just enough time for me to squeeze my eyes shut.
A slight breeze fans the hair near my ear at the same time a loud thud explodes nearby. The sound of the screwdriver striking the wooden frame of the shelf behind me.
I take a shaking breath, then another. When I finally open my eyes, I barely suppress a scream.
As if showcasing his handywork, Ruffo holds the tool right in front of my face. With a big, fat cockroach wriggling on the tip of the screwdriver.
“Resilient motherfucker,” he says, examining the bug. “You should let the owner know he needs to call in an exterminator.”
“Definitely,” I squeak.
“The head doesn’t appear damaged.” His eyes flit to mine. “Of the screwdriver, I mean. I’ll take it.”
Without another word, he turns and proceeds to the cash register. Hauling his prey away with him.
I take a couple of beats to let my racing heart slow, then jump off my support and dash after him.
As I ring up his purchase, I notice Ruffo staring at the open Tupperware container I left next to the register. He seems to be fascinated with the contents. The leftovers of my afternoon snack.
“Cheese crackers,” I mumble. “They’re homemade.”
“You made them?”
“Yup.”
Should I offer him some? A man like Ruffo is probably used to exotic delicacies. Would he even be interested in tasting my simple crackers? They’re good, but—
I’m still contemplating my next move when he reaches into the container and grabs the largest but slightly misshapen cracker.
“A fee. For pest disposal,” he grumbles before taking a bite.
I blink. Adriano Ruffo just made a joke?
