Love In Store Books 1-3: Collection of three sweet and clean Christian romances with a London setting: The Wedding List, Believe in Me, & A Model Bride

by Autumn Macarthur

  A pitiful offering, but the best she could do.

  “Would you like these? Coffee and a pastry? I just bought them.”

  He stared up at her, brow creased, as if he didn’t understand. Or as if anyone showing him kindness puzzled him.

  Slowly, he reached up, taking the cup and holding it close to his chest, wrapping dirt-encrusted hands around it. Perhaps it gave the first real warmth he'd felt for days.

  “Bless you, miss.” His smile showed stumps of teeth. “Happy Christmas.”

  The words creaked out of him like air from broken bellows, though with a surprisingly posh accent.

  She stood there, uncertain of what to do apart from giving him a little of her time. Once she got to her office she’d phone around, find a homeless shelter. Someone would surely offer him a safe warm place to go.

  The vise grip on her heart eased a little. But it seemed wrong to dump the pastry in his lap then rush away.

  And positively indecent to wish him a Merry Christmas in return.

  ~~+~~

  Nick Gallagher strode along the quiet London back street, trying to find Pettett and Mayfield’s department store.

  Grandma hadn’t warned him the place was nearly impossible to locate when she'd wheedled him into three weeks playing store Santa for nothing but expenses.

  He’d only passed offices, since turning off the main shopping street. Sure, the old stone and brick buildings with small paned windows were quaint, his sisters would be wild for them. But quaint wasn’t his thing.

  And this morning's weather didn't welcome an amble. The icy drizzle had an edge to it, after the seventy degree sunshine he’d left behind in L.A.

  No wonder Londoners were so grumpy. He hadn’t seen a real smile since he got here. The place seemed even worse than New York for that.

  Though he didn’t want to write the city off yet. This was London, after all, and less than 24 hours in a city wasn’t a fair trial.

  He’d probably warm to the place once he had a chance to look around more. Even if the weather was nothing to write home about, he'd find plenty to look at.

  Like earlier, that troop of beautiful matched brown horses ridden by guys in uniform, right on the busy main street in with the traffic. And the big red buses and black cabs, exactly the same as in the postcards.

  He’d gone out last night after he got in from the airport and snapped some selfies for his Facebook page. Managed to catch a double decker bus right behind him in a picture. Riding in the front seat of one of those buses came high on Tiffany and Zoe’s London lists. They’d both left messages saying how much they loved that photo.

  It seemed egotistical, taking pictures of himself all the time. But his fans responded enthusiastically to them, and his agent had almost screamed at him when he suggested stopping.

  His agent seemed to scream about a lot of his suggestions these days.

  One of the reasons he’d been glad of the excuse to get out of L.A. for a few weeks.

  He’d keep taking the photos for now. For his audience, as well as to help his sisters know what to expect when they arrived later in the month.

  So far, his experience of London hadn’t lived up to Tiffany’s romantic ideas about it.

  Gran’s timing had been perfect. The crew wrapped up filming the fall season of the soap before Thanksgiving, and production wouldn’t begin again until after the New Year.

  That is, if he returned to ‘California Dreaming’. One of the other things his agent had screamed about was his request to hold off other bookings, while he took the time to consider the new contract. Way too obviously reluctant, she’d agreed.

  He needed time out to think, clear his mind about the right choice. Something hard to do in L.A.

  His decision on what to do about the next series couldn’t be put off much longer. He’d asked God a hundred times for guidance, but whatever it was hadn’t got through his thick skull yet.

  Or maybe he simply didn’t want to hear God’s reply.

  He reached a building that matched the offices surrounding it. Same size. Same fancy stonework. But here, plate glass display windows replaced the usual small paned windows on the ground floor.

  Not that it was much of a display. Nothing but a few sad looking shop dummies in dull clothes with tinsel draped around them.

  This couldn’t be the right store.

  It was.

  Pettett & Mayfield’s, written in fancy brass letters above the door.

  He crinkled his nose. On the main shopping street he’d walked last night, the other stores had imaginative, brightly lit show windows. Not here.

  No wonder Gran said this place needed help, reminding him of his Christian duty to play Good Samaritan, as well as help out her old schoolfriend.

  He hesitated before walking up to the side door marked ‘Staff Entrance’.

  Back home, he’d go on in. But Gran had warned him the English might be less relaxed than Californians. Sticklers for correct behaviour.

  Best not to offend anyone on his first day here, even if he was the celebrity cavalry sent to rescue them. Maybe he should wait until the store opened then call the person he’d been told to contact when he arrived, Cara Talbot. He flipped through his phone looking for the email with her contact number.

  No-one else was around this early apart from a woman standing outside the next building, looking down at a pile of trash in a doorway. Then what he’d taken for trash moved. The woman bent over a person, not a pile of trash, handing the old man a coffee-shop cup and something in a small paper bag. If she hadn't done that, Nick wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

  Lord, help him, please.

  The guy would die of cold in this weather.

  There had to be services available for the homeless here. When he spoke to Cara, he’d ask her.

  The woman looked up as she stepped away from the tramp. The depth of emotion in her face surprised Nick.

  Sorrow, pain, and something more clouded her eyes. Not play acting, with glycerine tears. Real heartfelt emotion glistened in her eyes, something in short supply in Hollywood.

  The thing his co-star Micki had accused him of lacking.

  Taken feature by feature, this woman was almost plain, with her pinched pale face and drab grey clothes, especially compared to the glamorous starlets he worked with and dated.

  Yet the intensity of feeling in her dark expressive eyes sucked the breath right out of his lungs.

  The woman walked toward him, but didn’t seem to notice him, even when she passed only a few feet away. The worried and preoccupied frown on her face suggested her thoughts weren’t on her surroundings. She stopped at the door to Pettett and Mayfield’s, and turned the handle.

  He moved to enter the store behind her. Here was his chance to get inside.

  And if this woman worked here, his stay in London might be a lot more interesting than he’d expected.

  ~~+~~

  Cara hesitated, half-way through the door.

  The back of her neck twitched, setting her internal alarm system blaring like a siren.

  Please, don't let the old man have choked on the pastry or burned himself with the coffee.

  That would be just typical. Some people should come with a government health warning stamped on their forehead, and she was one of them.

  Cara swung around to check on him.

  Instead, she collided with what felt like a brick wall.

  A navy wool coated, expensively soap scented, very broad and very male chest of a brick wall. A brick wall that heaved in a chuckle beneath the hands she flattened against it to steady herself.

  More than the sudden impact sent the air whooshing out of her body. She teetered off balance as if she wore four inch heels, instead of standing feet flat on the floor in her oh-so-practical and oh-so-unfashionable winter boots.

  Lifting her head, she looked up, way up, into amused eyes the azure of a tropical lagoon, and twice as warm.

  Warm enough to have her melting in
a puddle at his feet. Her cold cheeks heated and she gave herself a talking to. Melting at the feet of a stranger was not what she came to work to do.

  Though he wasn’t quite a stranger. Something about him nagged at her memory.

  Those eyes crinkled with laughter. The curly blond hair peeking out beneath his cap. The lips curved in a smile. He looked like someone she should recognise, yet she couldn’t quite place him.

  His copper and bronze stubble of beard, for starters. That surely wasn't part of the image hiding somewhere in her mental filing cabinets. Nor were the winter clothes.

  But she couldn't shake her sense of deja vu.

  Strong hands reached out and took hold of her upper arms, sending ridiculous flutters through her whole body.

  “You okay?”

  That deep voice with a trans-Atlantic burr, mellow as honey, surely she'd heard it before, too?

  “Are you okay?” he asked again, more urgently.

  Cara shut her mouth with a snap, lifted her hands off his chest, and stepped back.

  Safely away from him.

  Away from her inexplicable and ridiculous urge to forget the old man, forget the store's problems, and fling herself into those muscular arms. She didn’t normally react like this. Far from it.

  Handsome men were a dime a dozen in London.

  What was so special about this one?

  Chapter 2

  Cara needed to get her common sense back, fast.

  Mr Drop Dead Gorgeous had no place on her agenda, no matter how warm and smiley his eyes were. And no matter how the concerned look on his face made her feel as if he really cared about her and wasn’t asking out of mere polite obligation.

  A woman like her wouldn't even appear on his radar screen.

  “I'm fine,” she squeaked.

  She could do with the coffee she'd given away, some water, anything to wet a mouth gone Sahara dry.

  “Let's get you inside, out of the cold.” He spoke with the calm level voice ambulance drivers and hospital staff used with relatives of the seriously ill, as he took her elbow.

  Her arm tingled where his hand lightly rested. Something about this man switched all her senses onto high alert. Most likely his presence right behind her caused that alarm-bell sensation she'd felt.

  But in case it wasn't, she had to check. Feeling responsible for harming anyone else would be too much to bear.

  Pulling away and shaking her head, she peered past Mr DDG. “No, not yet. I have to check something.”

  The old man sat in his doorway, eyes closed, chewing on the Danish she'd given him. No sign of choking or coffee burns.

  Thank God, the Curse of Cara hadn't struck again.

  She let go a sigh and her tight shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

  Mr DDG's lips twitched.

  He better not be laughing at her. She flashed him a look, daring him to say anything out of order.

  “I saw what you did,” he said. “Giving him food and drink was kind.”

  “It's cold. He looked hungry. I wanted to make sure he got some breakfast, at least.”

  For some inexplicable reason, he put her on the defensive.

  Mr DDG shook his head. “You don't have to make excuses for a good deed. We all should do them more often.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Ready to go inside now?”

  Cara nodded.

  The man opened the door and held it for her, waving a large tanned hand to encourage her to walk past him and into the lobby.

  Manners, as well as looks and charm.

  Too much charm.

  His easy smile reminded her of her dad.

  She really needed to figure out who he was. The sense of almost-but-not-quite remembering drove her nuts.

  Likely once she realised, she’d want to kick herself, hard, for missing something so obvious. Lack of caffeine must be fuddling her mind. And the encounter with the old man had reminded her too much of Dad and all the guilt that went with him.

  Mr DDG followed her through the door, as if he belonged here at Pettett and Mayfield's. Though she felt like she should, she still couldn’t place him. Perhaps he was a temp Mrs Pettett employed without telling her?

  He creased up his nose as he looked around the grim staff entrance foyer, with its fluorescent tube lighting, sickly green painted walls, pinboard fluttering with notices, and bare concrete floors. The threadbare string of tinsel and the few plastic baubles someone had hung only made the place look worse.

  “You work here?” she asked, her surprise way too obvious.

  He laughed, creasing the bronzed skin around those hypnotically vivid eyes. “You could say that. Today's my first day. How about you?”

  So he must be a temp. Hardly helpful, but Mrs Pettett often did this, taking on staff and forgetting to let her know.

  “I've been here eleven years now, since I left school. I’m Cara Talbot. Assistant Deputy Manager.”

  Something about that smile of his made her say more than she normally would. “Really, a glorified accountant, and management dogsbody.”

  She started to offer her hand for him to shake, then pulled back.

  Charmer, remember.

  Not safe to touch, even with a ten foot pole. Plus, if his fingers resting on her elbow through her coat gave her those weird electric shock tingles, a handshake could permanently stop her heart. It'd already had as much workout as a Zumba class, just from standing next to him.

  She wasn't sure she liked the sensation.

  Or the glint in his eyes as he smiled that too smooth smile of his, suggesting he knew exactly why she'd pulled back her hand.

  “Great job description. Nice to meet you, Cara. You’re the woman I’m here to see. I'm Nick.”

  She stared at him, narrowing her eyes.

  Please, let what I'm thinking now be wrong. Please don't let Nick be who I think he is.

  She remembered the publicity photos Mrs Pettett had waved around at the last meeting, and tried to recall more than the muscles in his bare shoulders and arms.

  Subtract the cap hiding most of his blond curls.

  Subtract a week’s worth of stubbly beard.

  Swap the coat and the scarf and the jeans for a t-shirt and board shorts.

  Swap his boots for flip flops.

  Add the theme tune to California Dreaming, the longest running beach set soap opera in the world.

  Add fifteen years to the face on the posters she'd stuck all over her bedroom walls.

  Yep, that was all it took.

  Cara's Zumba-racing heart landed right next to the soles of her sensible winter boots with a thud that shook her.

  She scrunched her eyes shut and covered her face with her hands. Maybe she wasn't seeing what she thought she was. Maybe she'd hallucinated.

  Lack of caffeine and low blood sugar could do that to a girl.

  But when she opened her eyes, the same Nick still stood in front of her, an even more amused gleam in his eyes and a smile playing on his lips.

  She closed the mouth she'd opened to ask, 'Nick who?'

  She knew.

  Nick Gallagher.

  Actor.

  Star of ‘California Dreaming’ since his teens, after wowing the world in the box office hit film ‘Joey Christmas’. And now appearing daily in Pettett and Mayfield’s until Christmas, as the store’s Celebrity Santa.

  How she’d failed to recognise him sooner, she couldn’t guess. Her only excuse was that she didn’t have time to watch TV or read the celebrity magazines that sold by the rackful in the supermarket.

  Her memories of Nick were stuck in a time warp, as her biggest teenage crush.

  And here he was, all grown up and standing in front of her, mischief gleaming in his eyes. The only man she'd ever met whose smile made her heart somersault like an Olympic gymnast and whose touch made her quiver like she'd been plugged into a power socket.

  And for some reason, here hours earlier than expected, turning her pathetic attempts to keep her world neat and tidy and orga
nised upside down. All she could hope was that Mrs Pettett listened to her request to delegate the job of taking care of Nick to someone else.

  Because if she had to work for the next three weeks with Nick, she wouldn’t have any brain cells left to come up with a plan to save the store.

  ~~+~~

  Nick couldn't keep the grin off his face, though the horrified look she darted his way made it crystal clear - she'd finally realised who he was, and she wasn't happy about it.

  She'd make a wonderful actress with such an expressive face, but a terrible poker player.

  Normally, wherever he went people fell over themselves to please the star.

  Not Cara.

  Just the opposite. She looked like she wanted him back on the other side of the planet. Anywhere but here, in London, in this department store.

  Well, she was out of luck. He'd promised Grandma.

  Besides, his time here looked more interesting by the minute. Cara intrigued him.

  He’d win her over.

  “Hey, come on Cara. I'm just an actor, you know. Not an axe murderer or a serial killer.” He focused his practised smile on her, the little boy smile that almost always got him his way. “I go to church every week. I bathe once a month whether I need to or not. My friends seem to like me. So please, quit looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” She straightened her back, giving him a quelling frown.

  He laughed, and her expression became even more nannyish. But he couldn't help it.

  That English accent of hers did something to him.

  Anyway, he wasn't giving up that easy. Micki had challenged him to hang in there when the going got tough with something or someone.

  Cara might just be it.

  “Like I really am an axe murderer or a serial killer.”

  “How do I know you're not?” Her big chocolate eyes widened as she raised one brow.

  Completely deadpan.

  From another woman, in a different tone of voice, those words might have been flirtatious. Somehow, he knew she wasn’t flirting.

  Regret surprised him. He wanted her to flirt?