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

  Determined to prove to her family and to herself that she’s good at something other than shopping, she sets up an ambitious back-to-work partnership between the shelter and Pettett & Mayfield’s department store. But her scheme means she and Mac are thrown together, as he’s working at the shelter while he recovers from a bomb blast. When he turns the camera on her to help her get a modelling job, she begins to see past his wounds.

  Neither is looking for love, but love finds them anyway, though they know it can’t last when their plans are taking them in different directions. Can they learn in time that no matter what they’ve planned, God’s loving purpose for their lives can’t be denied?

  Book 3 in the Love in Store Series of sweet inspirational romances.

  Chapter 1

  Tiffany Gallagher looked out the small paned floor to ceiling window of the busy open plan lounge-dining room to the quiet cobbled street. Thin winter sunlight gleamed on the fresh snow that had fallen overnight. The lovely old house across the lane had a huge pine wreath on the door, and candles in the window.

  It was the kind of Christmas vision you want to take a picture of and put on a post card.

  Or Instagram.

  It would be perfect, if only she wasn’t looking out the window of a homeless shelter.

  “You know, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind for Christmas Day when Nick invited me to spend the holidays in London.” She grabbed more tablecloths from the linen closet and handed them to her future sister in law.

  Cara frowned at the tablecloth she’d spread on one of the round tables in the dining area. “I think if we turn it this way then put a placemat on top, we can cover this little hole.” She looked up, and smiled an apology. “Blame me. I brought him here.”

  Tiff knew full well it was all her brother’s idea. Nick or her dad wouldn’t think twice about asking everyone to give up Christmas. As a pastor’s kid, she was used to helping out when needed. She felt compassion for the people here, of course she did. And the shelter was way nicer than she’d expected.

  It was just that this was her only London Christmas. The first white Christmas in London for more years than anyone said they could remember.

  When did they ever get a white Christmas back in L.A.? Only on a film set or inside a shopping mall.

  The ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’ Christmas Day she’d hoped for would have helped make up for her disappointment over things not working out in Paris.

  A sigh escaped her. So much for her intentions to focus on what was ‘good and pure and right’, and find the blessing in all that happened, not waste time feeling sorry for herself. She straightened her back, lifted her head, and pasted on a determined smile.

  Cara didn’t seem to have noticed the lapse into pity party. Her gaze was stuck on Nick, centre of attention as always, sitting talking with a group of residents across the room.

  Tiff smiled. “Go on, I can see you want to go to him. No problem for me to finish these last few tables on my own.” She picked up a handful of cutlery from the trolley and started laying places for lunch.

  Cara grinned. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Only if not being able to keep your eyes off him for more than five seconds is being obvious.”

  Everyone in the family thought Tiff was the silly impulsive one. She dated enough for her and her twin sister both. Zoe was the brains, Nick was the heart-throb and she was the dream chaser. But to get engaged after only knowing someone a month? Even she was more practical than that.

  When she finally met Cara, it made perfect sense. They’d decided on a long engagement but it was clear Cara and Nick were peas and carrots. They went together.

  Cara blushed a little, and laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s just… you know….” She trailed off, her gaze still fixed on Nick. “If you’re sure you can finish here?”

  “Of course I am. You two make such an adorable couple. Go to him.”

  A pang of jealousy bit Tiff as she watched the way her brother’s face lit up when Cara sat beside him on the couch. It was obvious the two of them had something special. She’d dated plenty, but she couldn’t honestly say she’d ever felt that desire to make things more serious.

  Even Paul, who she’d dated all year and wondered if maybe she was in love with. When she told him she planned not just Christmas here, but three months in Europe to follow her fashion dreams, they’d simply decided to part ways. No stress, no drama.

  Not that she wanted drama, exactly. But a bit more regret would have been nice. And so far, none of her plans for Europe were working the way she envisioned them.

  She knew what people thought of her. Sweet, but fluffy. Even her own family thought it. Her goal for this trip had been to show everyone she wasn’t just superficial and brainless, and that a fashion major wasn’t a complete waste of time.

  When she heard that the sketches she’d entered in a Paris design competition had semi-finalled and would be part of an exhibition, it seemed like a chance. She’d arrived for the judging, hoping at least one door might open for her. But the final judges’ comments had been dismissive, and none of the fashion houses had been willing to look at her portfolio, even the ones she knew took on interns.

  Defeated and tired from the train journey back to London yesterday, the last thing she wanted to do was put on a happy face and serve at the homeless shelter.

  A quiet whisper that this was what the Lord would have done instead of sitting snug at home by an open fire tickled uncomfortably, reminding her it was her duty to do what was needed with a good heart. And Nick had promised, she’d get her cosy English Christmas later.

  “Hey Goldilocks, quit daydreaming, give me a hand here, would you?” A rough voice with a Scottish burr scratched at her like sandpaper.

  She turned ready with a retort, but the sharp words on her lips died when she looked up at him.

  And up, and up.

  Even hunched over a loaded tray of crockery the way he was, she guessed he had to be ten inches taller than her five two plus heels.

  His unshaven face, scruffy sweater and worn jeans proclaimed him a resident, though something about him and that accent of his tugged at a sense of familiarity. Angry hazel eyes under a thatch of dark hair scowled her direction, as he balanced the tray precariously against the door frame while he struggled to open the kitchen door.

  Hurrying as fast as she could on her high heels, she tried to take the loaded tray from him. The weight of it made her stagger. No wonder he’d had trouble with the door. She’d be lucky if she could walk a step holding it.

  “Where do you want it?” She tried hard to pin on a smile and keep a chirpy lilt in her tone as her arm muscles strained and protested.

  It’s all for Jesus, right?

  He straightened and his dour face lightened, just a little. Not a smile, but the hint of something, like the promise of sun behind clouds.

  Suddenly, he looked different. Almost handsome, in a hard, rugged kind of way.

  “I’ve got the tray.” He took it back, lifting the load from her aching wrists. “If you could just get the door.”

  A glance at his biceps stretching the sleeves of his sweater suggested he couldn’t just lift the tray, he could lift her too, with no problem.

  Something feminine and soft in her woke up and started paying attention. Something that wondered what it would take to make him really smile.

  That would be a big mistake.

  Just because she thought she’d glimpsed something warm behind his stone face, wasn’t any reason for her to be getting all fluttery over him. She was here to prove she could be serious. Serious did not mean falling for the next guy she met. Especially one in a homeless shelter.

  Unfortunately, telling herself that didn’t make the flutters go away.

  She dragged her eyes off him, and opened the door.

  “The restaurant down the street loaned us extra plates for today.” He grimaced. “I’d normally carry something like this easily. But my leg doesn’t
like the extra weight. ” He lifted one leg a little, holding it stiffly. Every line of his grim features and rasping voice held frustration.

  Those lines etched around his eyes and deep into his tanned forehead could be due to pain, not just bad temper.

  “I can help, let me take some of the weight.”

  He pulled the tray away from the hands she’d reached out, and stepped into the kitchen, swinging the heavy tray on to the island table.

  Unfortunately for his impressive move, the momentum took the tray too far, knocking over an open bottle of milk.

  He started to say something, and stopped dead.

  Tiff had the sense if it wasn’t for her presence, he might have cursed. That much manners he had, at least.

  “Thank you for not swearing,” she said primly, as she rushed to grab a dishcloth and threw it down to block the tide of milk spreading across the floor.

  His eyes held a bright gleam. In any other man, she’d interpret it as appreciation. In him, she wasn’t sure.

  “Next time, accept help,” she told him sternly, though laughter shook her. “I’m only just resisting the temptation to say I told you so.”

  “I think temptation won, by the sound of that.” His lips twisted in something that looked a lot like a smile. He pulled a mop from behind the cleaning cupboard, and got to work on the puddle. “Even with my useless leg, I stood a better chance of carrying the tray than a tiny thing like you, on those ridiculous stilts.”

  “What’s wrong with my boots?” She smiled up at him then stretched out a foot, turning it from side to side. “A girl needs to get some use out of her new designer heels. Besides, when I packed, waitressing duties weren’t on my agenda.”

  It seemed granite could soften. His face lost some of its harsh cragginess.

  Again, that almost instinctive response to him. Her senses were filled by him, standing so close, so big and raw and male and clean smelling. An awareness of him, flooding her with something warm. Something sweet and wild.

  She’d always been attracted by the strong, rugged type. Just maybe not quite this rugged. And she wasn’t supposed to feel like this for someone she met on vacation. Especially someone who somehow melted her, despite being craggy and hard as Scottish granite.

  This definitely wasn’t on her agenda.

  Her smile faded and she quickly took a step back, folding her arms across her chest.

  “You’re one of Nick Gallagher’s twin little sisters, right? Are you Zoe or Tiff.”

  People always compared her to Nick, the actor, the famous one. Or to Zoe, the brainy one.

  It would be nice if people knew her for herself.

  Of course, Nick had a knack for making himself the centre of attention. No-one forgot meeting Nick.

  “I’m Tiffany.” She gave the last syllables emphasis. She still hadn’t managed to convince her family to call her by her full name and not her baby name.

  “Colin Maclean. People call me Mac. You might not remember, we met that day you came in the store and I took a few photos. Nick told me you were woozy with cold meds and jet lag.” He held out a large tanned hand for her to shake.

  Hot embarrassment flushed her face and neck. Maybe she could go hide in a closet or something? She’d thought he was a resident, but this was Nick’s photographer friend. He’d think she was a total airhead.

  “Sorry, I should have recognised you sooner.” She tried an apologetic smile. “My first few days here were a nightmare. Jet lag, a head cold, rushing to get my portfolio finished, then off on the train to Paris.”

  She grasped his big hand in both of hers and stared up at him, barely managing to control the tremble of connection she felt as their hands met. The amused gleam in his eye unsettled her.

  As if he guessed, he increased the grip on her hand and shook it a bit longer. “No worries lass, a crippled photojournalist taking promotional shots at a department store is hardly going to be memorable for a famous Gallagher princess.”

  For a nanosecond, she was speechless.

  Then she lifted her free hand to her head. “Looks like I left my crown back in L.A.” She laughed, though it held a slight bitter edge. “Hardly a princess. I’m the non-famous, non-genius, currently unemployed Gallagher, with a major in fashion.”

  Yes, she was a Gallagher. With the mega-church pastor Dad, the Mom who never put a foot wrong, the actor brother, and the brilliant graduate student sister. Her family were sweet, she knew she was loved, but to them she’d always be the baby, cute but useless, like some sort of mascot.

  “It can’t be all that bad. Is it?” One eyebrow quirked, and his lips twisted in a wry smile.

  Oh, she could hug him for that question mark. Everyone else she met assumed her life was just peachy.

  Could hug him, but wouldn’t, of course.

  “We’re all equals in God’s eyes,” she murmured. “All with a unique gift and value to Him. None of us have any right to think different.”

  Maybe if she succeeded in proving herself the way she hoped to on this Europe trip, she’d actually start believing that applied to her, too, and not just everyone else.

  So she’d fallen flat on her face in Paris. That wasn’t the end of the world.

  There were plenty of designers in London to try.

  Chapter 2

  Tiffany Gallagher was exactly the sort of woman Mac preferred to avoid.

  Nick had spoken affectionately of his youngest sister, but implied she was sweet, fluffy, and not much good at anything beside shopping. It appeared to be true.

  Everything about her said it, from her ridiculously inappropriate high heels to her long elaborately curled blonde hair to her careful makeup. He’d done enough fashion photography to know that achieving her artlessly natural look took at least an hour and required a dozen beauty products.

  So why was he still holding her hand, long after he should have let it go?

  There was something unexpected and appealing in her shy but infectious smile, her way of peeping up from under her lashes, her tiny frame, the way she lifted her chin in stubborn determination.

  A hunger he hadn’t felt for a long time, not since Gina, stirred within him, catching his breath. Looking away and swallowing hard, he released her hand as if it was a grenade.

  She seemed reluctant to let go, her fingers lingering against his, before slipping away.

  A totally unnecessary sense of loss shivered him. He didn’t need an attraction to her to complicate things.

  His goal was simple. Get over this leg wound, pass his fitness test, and get back to his real work. His desire to document the war in the Middle East through civilian eyes, to give innocent victims a voice, was pressing. Much more important than tying himself up with a relationship. Getting involved with any woman wasn’t part of his plan.

  Especially one as young and impractical as Tiffany.

  "I...I need to go finish the tables I was working on," she stammered, looking away, her cheeks a rosy pink.

  "Fine. Thanks for your help." His voice came out harsher and more dismissive than he intended, but that was probably a good thing.

  He steeled himself to ignore the hurt in her eyes. Instead of leaving, she turned and started stacking the plates into the warmer.

  Something about this girl got to him in a way he didn't want or need.

  And whatever it is that she might want or need, he couldn’t give. There was no room in his heart to care about someone like her.

  Tiff’s innocent loveliness didn’t belong anywhere near the ugliness of war. He’d always tried in his photography to find the beauty in the ugliness. To show that there was something more, something bigger and better than us all, even in the worst circumstances.

  But the ugliness still found him, and it broke him. Part of him died back there, with that child he hadn’t been able to save.

  If only the intuition he’d followed had hit a couple of minutes earlier, before the bomb went off.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and his fists
clenched as the memories he wanted to forget exploded again in his mind. They flattened the feeble barrier he’d raised against them, as easily as the blast flattened the crumbling walls of the house.

  The shockwave, throwing him to the ground.

  The wet metallic stink of blood.

  The dust clouding the air, choking his nostrils.

  The surprise followed by blank emptiness in the eyes of the child, the boy who’d died in his arms as he'd tried to drag him to safety.

  The corrosive knowledge he'd failed, burning his guts.

  The boiling anger with God.

  No pain. Not then. That had come later, once the medics found him and took him away.

  He had to get back. He owed it to that boy and every child like him to document the reality of what was happening, and try to make amends.

  But until his leg healed, he was stuck here.

  A soft touch on his arm pulled him back.

  "Are you okay?” a sweet gentle voice whispered.

  He opened his eyes. Tiffany asked the question again, her face concerned and wide-eyed, as she nibbled on her lower lip.

  She was so beautiful. So naive. So untouched by violence.

  And he seemed to hurt everyone he touched.

  “What do you think?” His voice was a growl.

  She recoiled, pulling her hand from his arm as if he’d burned her. Guilt tightened his stomach.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, turning to limp away from her, as fast as he could.

  About as fast as an arthritic snail. With his fitness medical only ten days away, his inability to carry a stacked tray worried him. To pass, he needed to be able to run in a flak jacket.

  Worrying about upsetting Nick’s sister was the least of his problems.

  His painkillers were wearing off and the frustration was beginning to show in his attitude. The army hard men could repeat their mantras about mind over matter, and pain just being weakness leaving the body. He wasn’t that hard. He needed more medication.