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

  “Your carriage awaits, milady. At such short notice I couldn’t get a horse drawn one, so this will have to do.”

  Sweeping her a deep bow, he opened the cab door. He half expected her to tell him she could do it herself, but she didn’t.

  “They're still called hackney carriages, you know, the same as the original ones,” she said, settling herself in the cab. “It’s on the little plaque on the back of all London cabs.”

  Just like him rushing her out of the office, he sensed Cara’s small talk was a way of battling confusing emotions. Even more reason to keep things cool, if she reacted to him the way he had to her. He wasn’t up for anything serious.

  By New Year’s, he’d be gone.

  Nick sat as far away from Cara as he could in the roomy vehicle. No risk of touching accidentally during the ride, and sparking any more responses.

  It wasn’t that far to their destination, they could’ve walked. But he’d wanted to make Cara feel special, looked after, by taking a cab. Now, as in the elevator, the confines of the vehicle felt too intimate.

  He pulled his cap over his hair, wrapped his scarf around his face, and put on the heavy black framed glasses Maggie had loaned him.

  Cara shook her head and smiled. “How are you going to take a selfie or have your tame paparazzi know it’s you when you’re in disguise?”

  “I’ll make sure he recognises me when I’m ready.”

  Maybe it wasn’t wise, but he’d decided to have some time with Cara, before they did their bit for Pettett and Mayfield’s.

  The cab stopped at Trafalgar Square and they stepped out.

  Nick held his breath as he looked around him.

  The tree towered over them, simply decorated with tiny white lights and a single huge glowing star at the top. A reminder of the sign God gave to tell of the birth of Jesus. Behind the tree, high above the surrounding buildings, real stars glittered bright in the frosty night sky.

  This place was a traditional Christmas card come to life. In L.A., Christmas scenes this traditional only happened inside a mall or on a film set, not outdoors.

  Beautiful.

  Just like Cara.

  He glanced at her, hoping she appreciated it the way he did. This was for her, as much as for the store or for him. To make her happy.

  Turning her head from side to side, Cara was wide eyed as a child. But it wasn’t wonder making her eyes shine. The lights reflected on a glitter of tears.

  Not what he wanted to see in her eyes. It tightened his chest to know he’d caused her pain.

  Charming people into having a good time was his one talent. He didn’t like failing at it.

  And he didn’t like seeing her hurting. Why did a beautiful scene cause such sorrow?

  Maybe she had deeper reasons than being Ms Scrooge to avoid Christmas. He kept glimpsing this sadness in her, kept upsetting her without meaning to.

  Frustration ate at him. If he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, he’d be doomed to keep doing those things. The dare was supposed to be fun for them both. Stirring up misery was the last thing he wanted.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Shaking her head, she pointed to the robed choir. They wouldn’t look out of place in Westminster Abbey, singing Silent Night in their high sweet voices.

  “This carol always gets to me. It was my favourite.”

  His actor's ear didn't miss the strain in her voice. More than hearing a favourite carol was going on here.

  “I came here every year with my parents.”

  Something in her quiet tone rang true. She stood quiet and still for a moment, listening to the song, then looked up at him.

  “Thank you for bringing me here.” Like a bad actor saying their lines, the polite speech was parroted, with no feeling, so different to the deep emotion echoing in her previous words.

  “You don’t need to pretend, Cara.”

  His statement seemed to shake her out of her sombre mood. “Okay, I won’t. It’s lovely.” Her lips twisted. “But don't think you've converted me to the joys of Christmas, Gallagher. You haven't.”

  Her snark had returned with a vengeance. Then it clicked. The snark was the tool she used to cover up her real feelings. Helping her smile and find some joy in life would be a bigger challenge than he’d realised.

  Normally, he didn’t do challenge. Normally, he walked away from difficult people. But something about Cara was different.

  This was more than promising Gran he’d help the store. It was more than agreeing to the dare at the meeting yesterday. It was more than Micki challenging him to go deeper, to stop keeping everything safe and superficial.

  Cara was touchy, hypersensitive, and prickly. His fame meant nothing to her. Her moods switched faster than a quick change artist. Every emotion she felt played out on her face and in her body, no matter how she tried to hide it. Of all the people for him to be attracted to, he’d picked a drama queen.

  But he sensed her pain was real, so deep she couldn’t get past it.

  Maybe he could help her.

  And he knew he needed to learn to go deeper.

  Maybe Cara could teach him.

  Though what did he know about helping anyone with stuff so deep? That needed a pastor like Dad, or a psychologist, not an actor who skated on the surface of life. Yet God must have brought them together for a reason. He had to try.

  With any other woman who behaved the way she did, he'd be suggesting they call it a night and hailing her a cab. Instead, he turned to her.

  “You’re so full of contradictions. You act like Ms Scrooge, but there’s more to you than that. What makes you hate Christmas so much?”

  Cara shook her head. The hood of the cloak slipped back as he raised her chin. “We’re here for the store, not for us. There are still eleven dates to go. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be by asking questions.”

  His jaw tightened, and he drew in a deep breath before releasing it slowly. He wasn’t sure if he felt rebuffed or relieved.

  Either way, he had to drop it.

  Cara said herself that she didn’t trust him. Three weeks wouldn’t be enough to crack her shell. And though he was interested in her personally, all he’d do if he persisted was open a can of worms he wasn’t equipped to deal with.

  “Okay. But I’m not giving up on you, Miss Cara Talbot.”

  Normally, he would already have given up. But something about Cara had him trying harder than he’d ever done for anyone else.

  Her breath puffed tiny clouds of steam in the cold night air, and she shivered a little. Leaning forward, he lifted the hood and carefully settled it over her hair again. Holding the hood either side of her face, he gave a gentle shake. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze skittering away from his. A blush coloured her satin smooth cheeks.

  Standing so near to her and seeing that blush did things to him. His throat clenched, and he swallowed. Letting go of the hood, he took a step back.

  As he did, Cara lifted her stubborn little chin. “You can’t give up. We agreed to the dare, we’re stuck with it, whether we want it or not.”

  Her determined smile showed she'd play along, wanting to lighten the mood as much as he did.

  Relieved, he grinned. “Eleven more dates means I have eleven more chances to get you to want it. I’ve already ordered your outfit for Christmas Eve,” he teased. “By the end of the dare, you’ll be so in love with Christmas you’ll want to wear it.”

  “Not likely.” Eyes rolling in disbelief, she hugged the cloak tighter around her. “Tell me, what will it take to make you give up that idea?”

  He shook his head. “Like you said, we agreed to the dare. That includes the forfeits. But it cuts both ways. You can decide what you want me to do if I lose.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.” Her calculating expression suggested she’d plan the most embarrassing forfeit possible for him. Whatever triggered her sadness seemed to have passed.

  The scents of roasting
nuts, toffee, and mulled wine wafted to them from the food stalls dotted around the square.

  “Are you hungry? I’ve been looking forward to tasting some local fare. What would milady desire, chestnuts, or toffee peanuts?”

  Looked as if he was wrong. Grief flashed across her face, though she quickly masked it. “Chestnuts, please.”

  They strolled towards the nearest seller, his brazier glowing red and loaded with chestnuts, bigger than walnuts. Nick bought a brown paper bag full for Cara. Steam rose from the hot nuts, their brown shells burned black in places.

  “You’ll need to show me how to get them out the shell, I’ve never had them before,” he admitted.

  Cara smiled. A real smile, warming him more than the brazier.

  “I guess chestnuts don’t grow that well in L.A.”

  She took one, juggled it to cool it, then showed him how to peel back the charred shell to get to the large yellow nut inside.

  He tried one for himself. It was nothing like a regular nut. Soft and surprisingly sweet instead of crunchy and savoury, but still delicious. He shelled more for Cara, passing them to her as he peeled them.

  Being able to do this little thing for her felt good.

  Moving on to another stall for the nuts Nick wanted, he breathed in the sweet toffee smell. After he paid, the seller made a fresh batch, melting sugar in a huge copper bowl over a fire, dumping in peanuts, and stirring.

  “Mum and I used to make toffee popcorn like that,” Cara said.

  “If it tastes as good as it smells, I think I’d better add this to your forfeit. Call your Mom for the recipe. You can hand out toffee corn on Christmas Eve.”

  Cara’s face shut down, as if a door slammed shut in his face. “She’s dead.” Her voice was flat. She’d retreated behind her wall again.

  Regret knotted his belly, and his appetite vanished.

  “I’m sorry.” He meant it.

  Waving the vendor away when he offered the bag of freshly made nuts, Nick led her from the stall.

  He could kick himself.

  Snarky Cara amused him, sad Cara threatened to break something in him that had never been broken.

  He’d been lucky. Never lost anyone who meant anything to him. Never grieved. He hadn’t any clue what to do to take that haunted look from her eyes. A silent prayer was all he could offer.

  “Did you know the tree is a gift from the people of Norway in gratitude for Britain's support for them during the Second World War?” He rushed to say something. Reciting what he’d read on Wikipedia earlier made him sound like a tour guide, but anything to distract her from her heartache. “They’ve done it every year since 1947 as a symbol of peace and friendship.”

  “I know, we studied that in 4th class.” She attempted a smile. “Let’s go listen to the singing again.”

  The music of the choir and their background recording blaring through the speakers rumbled in his chest as they neared the tree. They stood together without speaking. His pulse thumped with the nearness of her, and with guilt over upsetting her again. Seemed everything he did made things worse. He wasn’t used to messing up this badly.

  As he prayed for God to heal Cara’s pain, he allowed the sweet familiar old carols, so perfect in this setting, to wash away his regret. God’s peace filled his heart and lifted him.

  Cara was in His hands now.

  Chapter 9

  Nick sang along with the carols resounding around them, as many others in the audience did.

  Not Cara.

  When the performance ended and the singers came around collecting money for charity, he gladly stuffed a twenty pound note into the slot at the top of the bucket.

  “You don’t sing?” he asked Cara, while loads of boys and girls wearing handmade hats with antlers filed onto the stage.

  “I sing like a duck.”

  He quacked a few lines of Jingle Bells. “You can’t be that bad, surely?”

  “I am. I wanted to be part of Christmas pageant like those kids up there, but the school choir wouldn’t have me. I had to be a sheep instead.” She laughed, a silvery tinkle it warmed him to hear. “So Mr Christmas, I heard you singing, what’s your favourite carol?”

  Her chin was up and the gleam of battle was in her eyes.

  Good. This Cara he could deal with. Looked as if she’d forgiven him for his foot-in-mouth moment earlier. He thought for a moment.

  “Too many carols like Jingle Bells leave God out of the equation just as much as Santa Baby does. My favourite is one of your English carols, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. It’s what Christmas is really about. God’s gift of Jesus, so we can all be forgiven.”

  Lips pressed together, she shook her head. “That’s a comforting idea, but I can’t believe it’s true. Some things are too big to be forgiven. And doesn’t the Bible say that the children will be punished for the sins of the parents.”

  Her head dropped, hiding her face from him. She pulled the cloak tighter around herself, as if it was a shield.

  Sadness swept him, as he recognised her reaction. Guilt and shame. Yet she could so easily be forgiven.

  He shook his head, and kept his voice gentle when he spoke. “Dad's a pastor. If he was here, he'd answer your question better than I can. But I do know that God forgives anything, and takes the guilt away, as far as the east is from the west. We only need to ask.”

  Cara planted her hands on her hips, feet wide, face set. “Nick, I told you, I don’t believe any more. Especially that I can be forgiven.”

  What had happened that was so bad, it destroyed her faith in God’s love? Something in his chest ached for her as he tried to imagine how lonely and empty life without God would be.

  The school choir behind them doing a jaunty performance of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer felt wildly inappropriate, as he struggled for the right words.

  “We're all God’s children. He doesn’t stop loving us, no matter what we do. Think of the Prodigal Son, drinking and gambling away his inheritance, yet his dad still welcomed him home.”

  “Nick, just shut up.” She almost growled the words as she pushed past him, looking around frantically. “I didn’t come here to be preached at. I’m here to help everyone keep their jobs.”

  “Cara—”

  She interrupted. “Where’s your paparazzi chum? Come on, let’s get this over with and take a few selfies so you can show your fans how wonderful you are. I want to go.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I don’t mean to preach.”

  “Well, don’t.” Lips tight, she shook her head.

  Nick couldn’t promise not to preach. He wanted Cara to know God’s healing love again, more than he’d ever wanted anything. But in the face of her anger, now clearly wasn’t the time to push the issue.

  Better to change the subject instead.

  “Let’s walk around, give the photographers more chance to spot us.”

  He’d seen the glint of telephoto lenses across the square, as soon as they stepped out of their cab. Not just Mac out tonight.

  Hoping she wouldn’t notice, he took off his glasses and put them in his coat pocket, then pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his trademark curls.

  Cara noticed, and pinned on a fake smile. “Better give them something to photograph,” she said, voice vinegary. “Take your selfies now.”

  He pulled out his phone. With her head close to his for the shots, her warm breath tickled his cheek while the sweet honeysuckle scent of her shampoo teased his nostrils. As soon as he’d snapped the pictures, she pulled away.

  The uncomfortable silence stretching between them ate at him. He broke it with some inane chatter. His speciality.

  “It seemed as if there were a few more shoppers in the store this afternoon. I enjoyed working my California Dreaming booth as Santa in board shorts.”

  “No significant increase in sales yet.” Cara’s voice still carried an acidic bite, but at least she’d responded. He’d half expected she’d keep him on ignore.

>   Then almost as if she though she ought to make an effort, she continued in a more normal voice. “So, you really did want to be Santa as a kid, like Joey Christmas?”

  “No. I wanted to act. I started out being the class clown for laughs, then I did some commercials and got a few bit parts. Getting cast in 'Joey Christmas' was my big break. An unexpected blessing.”

  Deliberately, he steered them nearer the paps as he spoke. “What about you? How did you end up at the store? Did you always want to be an accountant when you grew up? Your dream job?”

  “Does any child want to be an accountant when they grow up?” Cara barked a scornful laugh as she turned toward him.

  “The world needs people who are good with numbers. It’s as valid a gift as any other.”

  Her emphatic headshake contradicted him. “I dreamed of being a children's book illustrator. I'd been to book signings in the children's section at Pettett and Mayfield's. They used to get some big names, like Maxwell Creighton. When I was seventeen, and needed a job in a hurry, I saw their ad for an accounts clerk and applied. And here I am. That’s the closest I’ve got to my dream.” Bitterness twisted her tone.

  Despite that, he smiled, grateful she’d opened up to him a little more. “Do you still draw or paint?”

  “No.” Her tone was flat, final. “I don't have time.”

  “Maybe you should make the time.”

  Cara faced him, hands fisted, eyes threatening thunder. “You’re preaching again, Nick.”

  “I’m just saying those childhood dreams are such a big part of who we are. It’s a shame to leave them behind.”

  “You think because you’ve had a charmed life, everyone has the same opportunities. Well, we don’t. Some of us don't get the lucky breaks you did. Watercolours won’t pay the bills.” Her finger jabbed toward him, and her body stiffened, unnaturally still.

  He’d upset her again. If he thought he'd pushed her buttons in the cafeteria that morning, he was wrong. This was how Cara really lost her cool.

  Regret tightened his throat. He reached out an apologetic hand, but she ignored it.

  Instead, her fisted hands raised between them, tight against her chest, as if she wanted to punch him. “Don’t try to turn me into someone I'm not. I don't need or want your pop psychology, any more than I need your preaching.” Her voice shook.