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

  Awareness of her filled him. Her warm presence beside him, almost but not touching. Her gentle breathing. The light floral scent of her shampoo.

  He opened his eyes, and glanced at her. The candlelight gilded her hair and skin with a golden glow. But as she looked up and their gaze connected, something within her seemed to hold an even brighter glow, one that drew him like a moth to a flame.

  Her lips parted. He knew if he touched her creamy throat, he’d feel her pulse thunder beneath his fingers, as fast as his own heart beat.

  If they’d been anywhere else, he would have kissed her.

  His throat tightened. They weren’t anywhere else. They were here.

  And kissing her made no sense. All the same reasons he hadn’t kissed her in the tower still applied.

  He looked away, breaking the link between them, and pushed himself to his feet. It was time to get out of the intimacy of the darkness and the candlelight and the soft lingering notes.

  The next spin of the wheel sent them to Greyfriars Kirk, almost back to their starting place at the Museum. He made sure to keep the chat on innocuous topics as they walked there in the early winter dusk. Like the story of Greyfriars Bobby, the faithful dog that supposedly sat on his master’s grave in the Kirkyard for fourteen years and was buried just outside the gates.

  Tiffany’s face lit up with excitement when he showed her the life-size brass statue of Bobby, raised up on a pillar, his nose shiny from all the tourists who’d rubbed it for luck.

  “Wouldn’t it be amazing to inspire devotion like that?” she said, eyes shining. “I’ve never had a dog, I had lots of dolls, but that’s not the same as a real living creature. I guess the only place to find that sort of love is in a dog, or with God.”

  Mac nodded, though he’d never felt love like that.

  His parents had been too busy with their work and the other children, especially disabled Brodie, to give in to his requests for a dog. Hector, the dog at home now, was Catriona’s dog. They’d never had pets while they grew up.

  He’d swallowed his disappointment, told himself he didn’t mind, and concentrated on his photography instead. Grandpop giving him that camera for his tenth birthday was the best thing that could have happened. When Gina died, he’d had his photography. Something to focus on.

  That annoying little voice of his conscience whispered that he observed life second hand through a lens, instead of living it.

  Tiffany knew how to live, with joy and faith.

  He’d lost both, a long time ago.

  Chapter 14

  Tiff sat quietly in the car with Mac, on the way up to Arthur’s Seat. Quiet, because she’d given up trying to convince him she didn’t mind skipping the walk.

  Stubborn, pig-headed man. He’d guessed she still wanted to do it, but was saying no for his sake.

  Not wanting him to push himself too hard before his medical just so she could tick another tourist sight off her must-see list, she hadn’t mentioned it again after New Year’s Day. But clearly, he hadn’t forgotten. Today was their last day in Scotland, and as soon as they’d finished lunch with his family after church, he’d insisted they do it.

  When Helen offered them the loan of her small automatic car to drive to the start point of the walk, Tiff couldn’t explain the real reason for her reluctance. Mac still hadn’t told his Mom about the medical.

  All she could do was smile and agree, and pray that Mac knew better than she did just how much he could manage.

  At least if they took the car as far as the road went, it meant that much less distance for him to walk. Even if he pretended it was to save her from walking too far.

  The drive, up a winding road that circled all the way around the hill, definitely deserved its place on the tourist list. Even from the car, the views were amazing. Mac stopped in a parking lot that overlooked a small loch. He sat gripping the steering wheel.

  “This is it, as close as we can get to the top by car. You’d love it here in summer. The hillsides are purple and yellow with heather and gorse.”

  Helen had told her the old saying, ‘When the gorse is out of flower, then kissing’s out of season.’ Even now, with the snow deep on the ground, bright yellow flowers lingered. Gorse was never out of flower. Snow just made it bloom brighter.

  Not that she’d repeat that to Mac. Much as she longed to kiss him again, to feel again that sweet rush of sensation, it wouldn’t be wise.

  “I’ll be back in the States by then, I guess.” A safe reply, if she ignored the heaviness in her stomach the thought gave her.

  She peeked up at him. His expression didn’t suggest he’d welcome kissing. Or that he welcomed the idea of the walk, either.

  “We don’t need to walk right to the top, you know. I’m happy to just see the view from here.”

  He shook his head. “I said you’d get to the top, and you will. It’s only about a thirty minute walk from here.” His lips twisted in a sort of smile. “Maybe I want to see if I can do it, too. My own fitness test, no matter what the Army doctor says tomorrow.”

  Looked like he was determined. Men. Always stubborn and determined to prove themselves.

  Still, his choice. What she could do was make sure she set a slower pace. Shaking her head, she opened the car door and got out, taking a deep breath of the crisp cold air. A golden retriever jumped out the open door of a car the other side of the parking lot, and lolloped over to her.

  “Oh, aren’t you gorgeous!” She stroked his silky ears and soft head for a moment, while he sat beside her panting happily. Then he ran off, chasing a bird that rose from the gorse bushes.

  When she was finally settled, with a real job and everything, she could think about a pet. That story of Greyfriars Bobby had touched her heart. Maybe a rescue dog. Or if not a dog, a cat. The idea of giving love and care to an unloved creature appealed to her. Perhaps then she’d stop falling in love with unsuitable men.

  “Ready to go?” Mac said, from the roadside.

  She nodded, and followed him across the road to a snowy field.

  “You can see where the snow’s been tramped down,” he said. “Try to walk to one side if you can, where it’s trodden can get icy and slippery.”

  Tiff didn’t need to pretend to walk slowly. The path wasn’t so steep she had to scramble, but it was uphill all the way, and harder work than it looked. Mac seemed to stride easily, only the smallest hint of his limp.

  He intercepted one of her worried sideways glances.

  “Don’t worry. Last time I walked to Arthur’s Seat, I used the steep path up the town side. This is the easy way.”

  She bit back the words she wanted to say, ‘But you hadn’t hurt your leg then.’

  He’d told her he didn’t want wrapping in cotton wool. Her family doing that to her made her frustrated enough, so she shouldn’t do it to him. Knowing that didn’t stop her worrying. But she tried to stop peeking at him quite so often, or quite so obviously, as they walked.

  The sense of exhilaration at the top made it worth the effort. Joy flooded her. Stretching up her arms, she thanked God for the beauty of His creation.

  She felt like the Queen as she looked over Edinburgh, the rows of buildings and the parks and the church spires, able to see the whole city in one glance. Edinburgh Castle stood directly opposite on another hill, about a mile away.

  “Both hills are old volcanos,” Mac said.

  She nodded. They sat in surprisingly companionable silence for a while, then he suggested they’d better head back.

  They were nearly back at the car when it happened.

  Walking ahead of him, she managed not to keep glancing back to check on him, until a muffled oath stopped her dead. Mac stood still, his face pale beneath his tan and screwed up in pain.

  “I slipped on the ice and jinked my leg,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  But he could barely take a step. She rushed to his side, talked him into leaning an arm across her shoulders and letting her help him.


  Guilt tightened her chest, though he didn’t say a word to blame her. He didn’t need to. She blamed herself. She should have known he’d be too stubborn to say no, when she’d wanted to climb the hill.

  He stayed quiet on the walk back to the car, and all the way back to his parents’ house.

  When he left her at the café in the railway station with their bags the next morning while he went for his fitness test, he was still quiet.

  “I’ll be gone about an hour. Are you sure you’ll be okay?” was all he said, after his mom dropped them off.

  She lifted her Kindle Fire from the table. “I have Wi-Fi. I need to do some research. This suits me fine.”

  Mac nodded, and left, limping badly.

  Tiff wasn’t sure whether to pray he passed the test, unlikely as it seemed, or pray he failed it. Helen didn’t want him going back, and he’d been injured once before. What was to say it wouldn’t happen again? The thought of an even worse injury, or of him dying out there shuddered through her.

  But his work seemed important to him. He’d made a difference for that little girl who’d been given a new chance at life. His photos helped the British soldiers too, when they’d first been sent out there badly equipped.

  In the end, she prayed for God’s will to be done.

  Then she started researching London fashion designers. So she’d flopped in the design contest in Paris. That door slamming in her face might simply mean another one opening. Once she discovered which other designers might be offering internships, she’d take her design portfolio around to all of them, and show everyone that her fashion degree wasn’t a worthless piece of paper.

  She found a few designers who might be suitable. But part of her wondered if it was worth the effort. Her hopes had been so high when she’d sent her designs to the contest, and she’d failed miserably. Why should this be any different?

  Flipping through the pages of her online subscription to Vogue wasn’t the distraction she’d hoped it would be.

  Then Mac limped back, his face threatening thunder. It was clear he wanted to talk even less now than he had earlier. Obviously, his medical hadn’t gone well. Asking questions didn’t seem a good idea.

  Tears thickened her throat. Tears of disappointment for him, and of guilt that she’d caused it. She knew first-hand how much it hurt to fail at something so badly wanted.

  He merely took hold of their bags, and led the way to their train.

  In the carriage, she sat stiffly beside him, wondering what to say to break the silence that stretched uncomfortably between them. She’d given up pretending to read her Kindle as the train left the mellow stone buildings of Edinburgh behind, passing through suburbs and into open countryside, snow coated and serene.

  The atmosphere inside was anything but serene. Something, some awareness of each other, seemed to twang in the air between them.

  She peeked over at Mac. He didn't look up from his newspaper, but she sensed a change in him, a new tension, telling her he was well aware of her regard.

  So he was choosing to ignore her. Maybe it was better that way. She had no idea what to say to him, to help ease his disappointment.

  She shook her head at her thoughts. As if he sensed the movement, he lowered his paper and looked her way.

  Something in his intense eyes made her swallow hard. She sat up straighter, ready to listen.

  “You’ve probably guessed, they didn’t pass me.”

  She nodded, and bit her lip. Safer to say nothing than say the wrong thing.

  “It's not safe for photographers or journalists to go out there alone, so we're embedded in a British Army unit, and go where they go. The Ministry of Defence get photos, I get photos. It works.”

  She nodded again, all her attention on him.

  He did that derogatory slap of his leg she noticed he did when frustrated with his injury.

  “I need to be fit enough to run in a flak jacket and full pack, or I'll be a liability to the team.” He shook his head and his lips twisted. “Obviously, I’m not fit enough. It's one thing to let me risk myself, but not to let me risk endangering anyone else.” He shrugged, disguising the pain he must be feeling.

  “It certainly doesn't sound very safe,” she ventured, her voice small for fear of offending him. He was a grown-up, and what he did was his choice.

  He grimaced, hunching his shoulders. Something deep and dark and painful haunted his eyes, just for a moment. “It's not safe. Not for us. Even less so for the people who live there. What the innocent civilians suffer is hard to imagine, for a war that's none of their doing.”

  She stayed silent, hardly daring to breathe, in case she stopped his flow of words.

  He swiped a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away memories. “The worst is, you can't trust anyone. There's no way to know who is innocent and who is a soldier or a terrorist. Even little kids. I've seen things….”

  He looked down, and then rubbed his hand over his face as if he could wipe away the memories of what he’d seen. Some memories couldn't be easily erased, it seemed.

  Compassion swelled in her chest. Today, he’d let her in to see a different side of him. What drove his lapses into grumpiness and despair. Far more than just his wounded leg.

  The peaceful scenery flashing by the window seemed an odd contrast to the dark despair contorting his expression. She had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could speak.

  “Surely God is still there, even in the middle of that?” she ventured.

  Her hand reached out to him, then dropped back. Touching him wasn’t wise, after how she’d reacted to their kiss on New Year’s Eve. She’d been careful to avoid physical contact since then.

  “Is He? I used to think so. Now I don't know.” He closed his eyes and murmured the words.

  She turned to him, knowing now wasn’t the time to hold back, and took his stiff unyielding hand in both of hers. An indefinable warmth and connection tingled through her at the touch.

  Lord, let him feel Your comfort. Let me be a channel for Your love for him. Please Lord....

  Eventually, his hand relaxed in hers, responding to her touch. His fingers curled around hers. He didn't open his eyes or show his response in any other way, but she felt it. She knew she’d helped him, reached him.

  Something wild and sweet and joyful flowered in her heart.

  But she wondered how long it would last, if it would shrivel at the first cold wind of Mac’s doubt and cynicism. She was used to a world where everyone was a believer. If their faith wavered or faltered, no-one admitted it. It was all happy smiley Jesus-loves-you. As she said on New Year’s Day, maybe her faith had never been challenged.

  It scared her to think it could be challenged. It rocked the secure foundations of her safe little world and her safe little beliefs.

  “He is. We have to believe He is. He keeps His promises.” She spoke the words to convince herself as well as him, while her guilt and doubts and failures rushed up to bite her.

  Her silly sightseeing had made him fail his medical. And all her own plans had fallen apart at the seams like a badly made dress. She had no idea what to do about any of it.

  She looked past Mac to the window. Instead of seeing the countryside outside, she saw herself reflected back, blurry and distorted. It wasn’t a woman’s face she saw, but an uncertain girl’s, defeated and disheartened.

  The photo Mac took of her at the shelter on Christmas Day had shown a woman. A strong, determined woman, living her purpose. She wasn’t that woman yet, but with God’s help, perhaps she could become her.

  Because if God was to use her to help Mac, that woman was who she needed to be.

  Chapter 15

  Mac's mood could not have been worse, as he limped toward the shelter for an unplanned volunteer session on Friday evening. He wasn't sure what he was doing with his life. He wasn't sure what God was doing with his life.

  All he could be sure of was that he didn't like it.

  His stupid insisten
ce on doing the walk to Arthur’s Seat, not to prove it to Tiffany but to prove it to himself, had made him fail his medical.

  His entire life, he’d defined himself by what he did. In his childhood and teen years, as Brodie’s protector. Then, when Brodie didn’t need him anymore, as Gina’s boyfriend. After she died, he’d been offered the chance to go to the Middle East, and he’d defined himself by his photojournalism.

  By telling the truth. Showing the civilians affected by a war not of their doing, and showing the courage of the soldiers, under challenging circumstances.

  But he’d failed his fitness test. They weren’t letting him go back.

  Now, he didn’t know how to define himself. Who was Colin Maclean, if everything he’d defined himself by was gone?

  He had no idea, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. All he knew to do was to keep trying to pass that test.

  Train longer, push himself harder, until they let him get back to work.

  When Simon had called to ask if he’d do another session at the shelter, he had no reason to say no. He had nothing better to do. With the holidays over, the rush of Christmas do-gooders had dried up, leaving the shelter desperate for help.

  Before pushing open the bright blue door, he popped two more pills from the foil strip in his pocket, and swallowed them, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  A new skill. He'd become expert at taking painkillers without water. Making sure no-one saw him taking them minimised the risk of unwanted questions about his leg.

  As soon as he signed in, he checked the big room, and let go a long breath. No sign of Tiffany, or her family. He didn’t know if she’d be here tonight or not. No reason she should be. She’d had her Edinburgh Hogmanay, and now she’d be off chasing her own personal dreams.

  A disconcerting mix of relief and disappointment rocked him.

  He'd let her get way closer than he should have, during the Hogmanay trip. Her sunny smile and way of making the best of everything was more appealing than he'd realised. The comfort of her simple touch on the train journey home, when he’d been gutted at failing the medical, still shook him.