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down a narrow lane. Five men milled around three parked work trucks.
    “They’re actually on time for once,” Christopher said. “It’s a miracle.”
    Faye stifled the urge to lean across him again to see the small, stone chapel the workmen would be deconstructing. Instead she pulled out her phone to go through her email. She held it toward the ceiling but there was no cell service.
    “Dang,” Faye said.
    “What?”
    “I can’t connect here.”
    Christopher took out his phone to check. He swung it from side to side, searching for service. “Huh, that is strange. I’ve been here before and have never had any troubles.” He dropped his phone into his shirt pocket. “Guess we’ll have to entertain ourselves.”
    His eyes traveled down, and back up, her body. Was he flirting? He sure seemed to be flirting.
    “You mean rely on polite conversation?” She made an icky face. “How barbaric.”
    He laughed. “All right, I guess we could do that.”
    The car stopped and the driver jumped out to open Faye’s door before she even reached for the door handle. He held out his hand. Christopher cleared his throat, but she ignored him.
    “Thank you…”
    The driver gave her a warm smile. “Roger, ma’am.”
    She took his hand and stood. “Thank you, Roger.”
    As she exited the car, three of the men straightened away from the truck. One shoved a hand into the waist of his pants, cramming his shirttail inside. Another absently ran his fingers through his hair, while the third huffed into his hand and sniffed to check his breath. Was all that for her? She glanced at Christopher, who was staring at her over the top of the car, looking like he wanted to laugh.
    Faye dug in her messenger bag, falling back on Rule #2 of The Shy Girl’s Guide: If you become the center of uncomfortable focus, keep busy. Occupied hands ward off anxiety paralysis.
    “Mr. Adams?” Christopher asked.
    A large man in his mid-fifties met them halfway. “Yep. Mr. White?”
    “Yes, sir, and this is Faye Albert.”
    The man tipped his cap, revealing a sweaty circle of bald head. “Ma’am. And these are my sons.”
    “Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams.” Her gaze traveled to the four young men standing behind him. She smiled in their general direction, making sure not to look any of them directly in the eyes, and turned back to Mr. Adams. “Mr. White would like to take some photos before you start disassembling the church. It shouldn’t take too long.”
    “It’s your dime. We’ve got all day,” Mr. Adams said.
    “Thank you,” Faye said.
    Christopher hiked his bag over his shoulder. “Better get started.”
    He left her standing with the work crew. She fumbled in her bag again and drew out a file, still trying to ignore the men who seemed to have no intention of not staring at her.
    “Everything inside the church, all pieces of, and anything within the fence, should be delivered to this address.” She focused on Mr. Adams and handed him a printed map. “This is Mr. Shogun’s studio warehouse. There’s should always be somebody there, but if not, here’s my cell number. Just give me a call.”
    He handed the map off to one of the young men and deposited her card in his front shirt pocket. “We can start delivering today and finish up by Monday.”
    “Perfect.” Faye smiled and snapped her bag shut. “Well, I’ll go check on Mr. White.”
    She shoved the file back into her bag and straightened. The men still stared and for the first time, she understood what Whitney’s life must be like. Sure, the open appreciation gave her a heady feeling of confidence, but they only lusted for her because it was one of the perks of being bound to the Devil. Bummer.
    The men parted like the Red Sea. It was getting rather creepy. They acted like they’d never seen a woman before. She marched past them and down the uneven stone walkway to the chapel, trying not to trip. She could almost feel their stares burning against her rear-end.
    A wave of