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

  The way seeing her in the apartment had him wondering what it would be like to have a wife instead of dating a different girl every couple of months.

  Somehow, Cara had made herself unforgettable.

  ~~+~~

  Instead of taking the lift, Cara ran up the stairs to the apartment.

  Only two p.m. on Saturday and the rest of the day stretched endlessly away from her. Some extra exercise might help settle her twitched nerves.

  Nothing else seemed to help.

  She’d walked in Hyde Park. She'd braved the crowds of shoppers on Oxford Street. She’d brought Maggie up for a girly evening the night before, but knew there was no point calling her tonight because she’d be seeing Edgar.

  Now, she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  There were only so many bubble baths in the spa sized tub she could take, only so many films she could watch, only so many books she could read. She’d already gone in and done all the admin for the suicide helpline this week, and made sure their cookie tins were full. The lovely luxury of the apartment wasn’t enough to stop her thoughts chasing endlessly like a hamster on a wheel.

  Nothing distracted her enough from the thing she didn’t want to think about.

  Nick.

  She’d spent two days making sure she stayed in her office and didn’t see Nick while he was in the store. Resisting the temptation to make an excuse to see him had been hard, but she’d done it. It was the only way to avoid more heartbreak when he left.

  Seeing the photos in the papers had been hard enough. Nick with his sisters, two very pretty blondes. Nick being drooled over by some B-list starlet at a TV awards party. If the pictures stirred her feelings so much, seeing him was the last thing she should do.

  Her tummy fluttered when she noticed the flashing green light on the intercom message. She rushed to hit play.

  Not Nick. Her stomach plummeted.

  Nick’s sister Tiffany, the youngest twin, asking to meet her that evening and begging her to call on the cell phone number she’d left.

  He hadn’t asked her to meet his family, after that one time early on she’d turned down. Despite knowing it wasn’t wise to get more involved with him, she felt pathetically bereft that he hadn’t repeated the invitation.

  But even though she wished Nick wanted her to meet them, she didn’t think sneaking behind his back was a good idea. Tiff’s message had an aura of playing secret conspirator, getting one over her big brother. That wouldn’t be fair to Nick. He had to be the one to decide if she met his family or not.

  Besides, meeting Nick’s family made it seem too serious, too real.

  Blowing out a long sigh, she texted the number Tiff had left, apologising and saying tonight didn’t work for her. It wasn’t a lie.

  Though how she’d fill the rest of the day, she didn’t know.

  Surfing the movies didn’t help. Too many old rom coms. Four Weddings and a Funeral. Love Actually. When Harry Met Sally. While You Were Sleeping. All those people falling in love.

  Not what she needed to see, when she was falling too.

  She admitted it to herself – she’d fallen in love with Nick. Much as she didn’t want it, much as she’d fought it, it happened anyway.

  This was nothing like the first time she fell for Nick, her preteen crush. He made her come alive.

  Her life as it was, had been enough for her, until he came along and made her feel again. Made her want things she couldn't have and didn't deserve.

  Like him.

  Alone in the flat last night after Maggie left, she couldn’t stop thinking of her hand in his.

  The tenderness of his hand on her cheek.

  The strength in his arms when she’d hugged him in the Crypt and he’d hugged her back, or when he’d held her on the cup and saucer ride at the Winter Wonderland.

  How she’d drowned in his eyes at the concert.

  His kindness and thoughtfulness.

  The way she felt she'd known him, the real him, not her movie-star fantasy version, for years, not just two weeks.

  This time on her own felt empty without him. She wanted to see him again.

  But he didn’t want to see her. No messages, no texts. He’d seemed relieved to have the excuse of his family to stay away from her.

  No surprise if he did want to avoid her. She’d run away from half their dates and been off-putting for most of the others. The emotions he stirred up made her more of a prima donna than probably the most difficult actress would be.

  But still, she couldn’t help wishing he wanted to be with her.

  The push – pull thing she felt was crazy-making. Something in him drew her closer, something in her kept pushing her away from him.

  The problem wasn't him.

  Nick was upfront about who he was and what he offered.

  Fun, for as long as it lasted. In this case, until he flew back to L.A.

  The problem was her.

  Instead of enjoying the dare like the fun it was meant to be, she’d taken it far too seriously. Falling in love wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal.

  Until Nick made her realise there was more to life than just surviving.

  He’d infuriated her on the first date when he’d reminded her of those old dreams, the part of herself she'd put in the deep freeze when it all went wrong. But on Tuesday in the Crypt, he’d nourished her dreams.

  She touched the cover of one of the books he’d given her. Her Maxwell Creighton books had made her dream of being an illustrator in the first place. The books reminded her of her dreams. Everything Maxwell had said in his lecture reminded her.

  Her life was totally different to the one she’d imagined. Bad things that were her fault had happened. Dad. Mum. She’d spend her whole life trying to atone for that.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t draw or paint again.

  She set off back to Oxford Street.

  The art section in John Lewis was like a sweet shop to a ten year old. She bought soft tipped pencils and artist's pastels and big pads of drawing paper. The money she’d save on fares and food by staying here would pay for it.

  She could've gone to Pettett and Mayfield's. Used her staff discount. Put her meagre spending into the store’s coffers.

  But she wanted to keep this private, separate from work.

  The artist in her chose today, not the accountant.

  Carrying her precious bag of art supplies, she walked back across Grosvenor Square, the same way she'd come on Wednesday with Nick. She stopped again at the 9/11 Memorial, read the inscription again.

  'Grief is the price we pay for love.'

  Her eyes squeezed shut and she swayed on her feet as the words struck deep into her heart like a blade.

  She’d paid that price, would keep on paying all her life.

  Starting to draw again was one thing. Being willing to open her heart to Nick, to risk love again, knowing the price of love was so steep, was something else again.

  Losing Nick would break her heart and mind and soul just as badly as losing Mum and Dad had.

  Perhaps more.

  The only safe thing to do was to keep her heart locked up, not give in to her feelings.

  Love’s price was too high.

  But a flutter deep in her chest whispered that maybe, just maybe, letting herself find joy in the time she had left with Nick would be worth the inevitable grief.

  Chapter 15

  Nick pushed the apartment’s intercom right at the dot of noon on Sunday.

  He’d been busy, yet he’d missed Cara the whole time since he saw her last.

  Part of him had hoped she'd call him.

  She hadn’t.

  Mom and Dad and his sisters had badgered him to introduce her to them, but he’d baulked. He’d never introduced a date to his family before. No matter how he felt about her, a girl he’d be leaving behind in a week wasn’t the one to start with.

  The door lock buzzed open, and he ran up the stairs two at a time.

 
Cara stood waiting at the open door, dark hair flowing loose over her shoulders. Winter sun streamed in through the huge windows, back-lighting her like a halo.

  Something in his chest swelled up into his throat at the sight. It wasn’t hard to imagine how good coming home to her every day would feel.

  The idea didn't scare him as much as it would have done three weeks ago.

  “Come in,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face. “Do you want a coffee, or are we going straight out again?”

  “We have time. A coffee before we leave sounds great.” He pulled his chequebook from his coat pocket and waggled it at her. “We need to do it in order. Remember the song. Cheques next.”

  Cara bustled about in the kitchen, refusing his offer of help. She returned with coffee and plates of nibbles, then perched on the edge of the chair furthest from him.

  “What have you been doing?” he asked.

  She hesitated, looking down before replying. Then she met his gaze with a shy sweet smile. “It’s all your fault.” The smile widened. “Our trip to the Crypt inspired me to take up drawing again, actually.” She waved at the window. “The light here is wonderful, and not needing to commute gives me extra time. It’s saved me just enough to buy some art supplies.”

  He smiled back as that warmth in his chest threatened to burst into fireworks.

  If she’d taken up her art again, the dare had worked. He’d helped her. That felt good. Way good.

  “May I see?”

  “I'm a bit rusty. I’m not ready to show anyone yet.”

  “When you're ready, please let me know,” he said. “You’ve got my email.”

  Cara nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes.

  His lips tightened. The odds of her contacting him once they parted were slim. Even if she did contact him, he’d be in another country by then. With only a few days until Christmas, their dare was nearly over.

  More disappointment than he ought to feel ricocheted through him.

  To distract himself, he reached for his chequebook. “Have you decided which charities you want me to donate to?”

  “No-one’s watching us now, you don’t need to keep acting out the song.”

  She might look softer today with her hair down, but she’d kept her sharp edge. It felt as if she was testing him.

  He shook his head. “Cara, Christmas giving has always been a publicity stunt or a tax write off. My accountant tells me how much to donate, and my agent tells me where. It would be nice to quietly give to a few small charities that need the help.”

  Apparently satisfied, she nodded. “Okay. First charity, the homeless shelter. I went to visit William again last night. He’s doing well. He wants to come into the store, so I’ll give him the tour next week.” She smiled. “I ended up washing dishes. They’re desperate for more volunteers.”

  “Maybe I can help too?”

  It wasn’t just a line. He wanted to. Though he’d never washed more than a single dish in his life before. That’s what dishwashers were for.

  Cara grinned. “I’m glad you said that. Because I volunteered us both for Monday evening. The six till nine shift. Writing a cheque is easy, I want to see you doing the practical, Gallagher.” A teasing glint in her eyes softened the challenge in her tone.

  Let her challenge. He smiled right back at her. “I’ll be happy to. Mind if I bring Mac along?”

  Her lips twisted. “Is everything in your life a photo opportunity? So much for quietly giving.” She shook her head.

  He hated thinking she thought less of him. Had he become that shallow?

  Sure, some celebs wouldn’t do anything unless the cameras were rolling and they could get some mileage from it. He wasn’t one of them.

  It just looked and sounded like that.

  “It’s not me who needs the publicity. Photos would give publicity to the shelter, as well as the store. Maybe we could even talk Mrs P into making it Pettett and Mayfield’s official charity.”

  She nodded. Her approving smile lifted his heart like a hot air balloon. “Good thinking. Sorry I was so quick to judge. I’ll call Simon, the director, and ask about photos.”

  “Okay. Any other charities?” he asked.

  Cara had her answer ready. She named a charity he’d never heard of. “It’s a suicide helpline.” She ducked her head as if embarrassed. “I help out there.”

  So his suspicions there was far more to Cara than just an accountant were right. “That must be tough. You take calls from suicidal people? I don’t think I could deal with that.”

  Her cheeks blanched. “No.” Her voice was emphatic. She shook her head and her lips twisted. “I couldn’t deal with that either. I do what I do best, make sure all the bills get paid and the books balance. Sometimes I bake cookies for the volunteers.”

  “That still helps.”

  “Not enough. Never enough.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and her hands clenched around her coffee mug. Her gaze seemed unfocused and far away.

  Shaking his head, he frowned. “Not enough for what?”

  Her lips thinned as her attention came back to him. She set the mug down on the table and her fingers curled tightly. “You wonder why I don’t like Christmas. It’s their busiest time of year. Too many people can't deal with the difference between the hyped up expectations and their reality.”

  Her bitterness stopped him cold, pen poised.

  “That sounds like something you know about.”

  Her face closed up, and she turned away from him, toward the window. “I’ve seen too much of the damage suicide leaves behind.”

  Cara's tone warned him not to probe, but it seemed both issues touched her life closer than she wanted. He knew of her fears her Dad could be homeless. Had someone close killed themselves? She’d said on her first date that her mother was dead. Not that, surely?

  The thought of heartbreak that bad touching his Cara broke something inside his chest. Unbearable to think about it, let alone talk about it.

  All he could do was silently pray, Lord, help her, as he wrote out two cheques.

  “Here you are. Signed and ready to go.”

  She moved away from the window and took them from him. Her brown eyes widened as she read them.

  “Oh my. There's a couple more zeros than I expected.” She laughed, though the sound didn’t hold much humour. “And I worried the rental on a fancy car and a canal boat for a few hours might be too much for you.”

  Then her brows pulled together. “They won't bounce, will they?”

  Her tone of earnest concern showed she wasn't joking.

  He shook his head. If she could believe he’d bounce cheques to a charity she really didn’t know him at all.

  Disappointment tightened his gut. He needed to let out his tension in a long breath before he could speak.

  “Of course they won't bounce. I told you, I'm not the type to go around spending money I don't have and writing big cheques to impress women. I won’t snatch them back once I’ve taken a selfie with them, either.”

  His reply came out sharper than he’d intended. He wanted to be the sort of man she could trust. But the more he did for her the less she seemed to trust him.

  Cara nodded wordlessly, but anxiety lingered in her eyes as she glanced down at the cheque and back up at him.

  Maybe her father had done exactly that. The man a girl should be able to trust most of all, had let her down. It wasn’t him she was judging.

  “I’m not your Dad, Cara.” He softened his tone.

  She let loose a huge sigh, and her rigid shoulders slumped. “I know.” She dropped her gaze, and twisted the tip of one foot into the plush carpet. “I'm sorry I doubted you, Nick.”

  “Your Dad gave you good reason to doubt, but I’m not like that. Most men aren’t. Isn’t it time you learned to trust people again?”

  Her nod didn’t seem quite convinced.

  He wasn’t hanging around long enough for that. And if would be unfair to get her to trust him and then leave. T
hat was what men like her father did. But if he could help her trust people, just a little more….

  “So, where are we going this afternoon,” she said, with an almost believable attempt at cheeriness.

  “Ice skating.” He kept his tone light to match hers.

  Maybe one day, she'd trust him.

  Today was obviously not that day. Probably, it would never be that day.

  “That's not in the song,” she protested. “You're cheating again. And I have no balance. I'll fall over.”

  “I'm not cheating. Wait till we get there, you’ll see.” He grinned. His solution to the next line in the song was perfect. “I won’t let you fall, either.”

  He was the one who was falling.

  Falling crazily in love with Cara.

  ~~+~~

  When they arrived at Somerset House on The Strand, Nick took Cara straight to the enormous Christmas tree, towering over the temporary ice rink in the courtyard of the magnificent old building.

  Each branch held a shining silver ornament shaped like a mythical beast. The tree base looked like a jewellery box, in the famous Tiffany blue.

  “Tiffany,” he said. “Straight from the song.”

  Cara smiled and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay. You win, Gallagher. The song makes me think she means a tree dripping with jewellery, but if those ornaments are from same Tiffany’s, it fits the song. And it's beautiful.”

  Nick grinned back and started to speak, but Cara held up a hand.

  “I'm not conceding the whole dare, mind. Just this round. And first you have to get me through a circuit of the rink without me falling over.”

  Despite her sadness at the apartment, he sensed something had subtly shifted. Cara seemed to have made up her mind to embrace the experience. Maybe the talk of suicide reminded her of the need to find joy in this life, rather than waste the gift of existence God gave her.

  Gratitude glowed warm and light in his chest.

  And he had no intention of disappointing her. “I'll do my best,” he said. “It's been a while.”