Erin laughed. “You think you’re going to church with me? You can’t even set foot in there.”
Andy smirked. “I am a Great Earl of Hell and the Discoverer of Wickedness. You’d be surprised where I can go.”
“Oh, what, anywhere with wickedness?” Erin raised her eyebrows.
Andy bowed. “Naturellement.” He turned to Erin’s closet and rummaged enthusiastically, flinging clothing across the bed.
“Wouldn’t people see you?”
“Only if I wanted them to.” He waggled a little black dress in her direction. “Can I interest you in this chic number?”
Erin shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do there, anyway.”
“Fine.” Andy pouted. “Can we at least do your hair?”
Erin looked at him like he’d sprouted an extra head instead of a set of wings. “A demonic hairstyle?”
“Don’t knock it till you try it. Sit down.”
Erin lowered herself into the chair facing the vanity mirror.
Andy reached into another pocket and retrieved a handful of silver hairpins. “Hold still.”
Erin felt his warm fingers slide up from the top of her neck deep into the hair on the back of her head. He gripped and twisted in one smooth movement, gathering stray locks with his free hand and pinning them artfully into the twist.
It all happened so quickly that Erin barely had time to register the goose bumps that rose on her arms. She couldn’t, however, avoid the sight of her reddened cheeks in the mirror, especially when his warm hands brushed past them to arrange a loose tendril or two.
“There,” said Andy. “That’s better.”
“Thanks,” said Erin, and tore her gaze away from the mirror to stare at the surface of the vanity instead. “What will you do while I’m gone?”
“Talk to Nancy. Stretch my wings. Come up with plans to torture your ex-husband.”
Erin smiled ruefully. “Maybe I should have fixed him breakfast more often.”
“How often did he fix you breakfast?” said Andy.
Erin searched her memory and came up with nothing.
In her silence, Andy got his answer. “You’re well rid of him. More coffee before you go?”
Erin parked in the lot adjacent to the church and took several calming breaths before opening the car door. She picked up her Bible—with a slim romance novel tucked inside—and joined the trickle of parishioners making their way into the building.
If she was lucky, she could avoid her mother until the last possible second.
She threaded her way through the lobby, past the ushers, into the sanctuary, and down the aisle flanked by sturdy wooden pews. She took a seat in the back, next to the aisle, far from the front rows preferred by her mother—and, of course, Mark.
“Darling! What are you doing here? Come sit up front,” said her mother, who swept up from behind and seized her arm.
Since diving under the pews wasn’t an option, Erin freed herself and spoke in a quiet but firm tone. “Not now, mother. Don’t make a scene.”
“Nonsense. Who’s making a scene? Can’t I sit with my only daughter?”
“Sit here, then.”
“And miss Pastor Patrick? You know I can’t see that far.”
“You can watch him on the video projection screen, Mom.”
