Title: Blind Horses

A/N: This title is based off of an old Scottish saying, "A nod's as guid as a wink tae a blind horse," which roughly translates to: 'If the horse is blind it doesn't matter whether you nod your head or wink your eye, he still won't see it'. This basically means that it doesn't matter whether you wink or nod or wave at a blind horse; you still won't get it's attention. For me this title is a metaphor for people who are ignorant in love, or who have a difficult time recognizing and understanding love when it's right in front of them.

Chapter One: Meet Cute

Belle shifted her weight uncomfortably, looking up at the tall mansion and wishing for the thousandth time that the love of her life could have been something boring, like accounting. Accountants never ended up in these kinds of situations. Clearing her throat, she pressed the buzzer beside the door and waited. Just when she was beginning to wonder if the buzzer was actually working, there came the crackling response of the P.A. system, through which there came a thick, angry Scottish accent, "Who is it? Awa' an bile yer heid!"

Of all the authors that she could have landed for her first assignment with the agency, Belle had landed the most notoriously ill-tempered author to ever reach the New York Times Bestseller List. Bracing herself vigilantly, Belle forced herself to sound as cheerful as possible, "Mr. Gold? My name is Belle French; the agency scheduled our first appointment for this afternoon."

Silence for a full three minutes. Belle checked her watch and shuffled her feet again. And then, finally, there came that incessant crackling again: "Come on through dearie; my secretary will greet you presently."

The mechanical gate slowly opened then, and Belle hesitantly made her way across the cobblestone courtyard to the front door of the great house. It towered above her from across at least three centuries of workmanship, and she couldn't help but marvel at its structure. The front door swung open suddenly, and a young woman greeted her.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Gold's new editor, then?" The young woman said, her smile tense with stress and forced cheerfulness.

Belle did her best to hide her similar anxiousness, and stepped through the door quickly, dusting the snow from her coat.

"Belle," Belle nodded, shrugging out of her coat and passing it to the secretary. "His new literary agent, actually. And your name?"

"You can just call me Ashley," The young woman said, turning away to hang up Belle's coat. "He's been locked up in his study for the past three days; haven't seen him leave to eat. Usually means he's in the middle of one of his big projects."

"Yes, I'm here to discuss the upcoming book project that's due in next month, as per his contract with Random House," Belle nodded, following behind Ashley as the secretary lead her from the main foyer down the hallway to the sitting room. Belle's eyes couldn't help but wander across the rich carpets and drapes, and the gleaming, polished hardwood floors.

There was an undertone of sarcasm when Ashley replied, "Yeah? Well… good luck with that. I'll bring you some tea and banana bread; make yourself comfortable while you wait."

"Thank you," Belle nodded, settling back on the mauve velvet sofa. Her eyes followed the finely detailed portraits along the wall, past the large fireplace, and finally came to settle on a grandiose hardwood spiral staircase, leading to the second level, where she imagined Mr. Gold's study must be.

Ashley reappeared a few moments later, settling in one of the chairs across from Belle and placing the tea tray down on the coffee table between them. Glancing up at the staircase anxiously, she set about serving the tea and began nervously, "Random House… that's right, the one with that bitch for an editor."

Belle had to hide her smirk behind her teacup and nodded hesitantly, "Yes, that's the one. I've already had several rather intriguing discussions with her over the phone… it would seem that she's keen to get her hands on your employer's latest manuscript."

Ashley rolled her eyes, glancing toward the old fashioned rotary phone on the far left wall warily, "You have no idea how many times she calls this house in a day."

"Oh, I can believe you well enough," Belle nodded, taking another sip of her tea as she glanced in the general direction of the staircase again. "Should I…?"

Ashley shook her head dismissively, "He'll join us when he feels like it, if he joins us at all. Like I said, he's in one of his moods."

Belle frowned, glancing at her watch again. Already twenty minutes had passed. Just then, the sound of a cooking timer rang shrilly from the direction of the kitchen doorway. "Just a sec there, gotta run and get that second loaf out of the oven!"

Belle nodded passively, eyeing Ashley as she exited the room. As soon as she was sure that Ashley was safely distracted in the kitchen, Belle swiftly made her way to the staircase and took the stairs two at a time. As she had suspected, the staircase lead to a loft. The study was cluttered with papers and various office supplies and trinkets across every surface, nearly burying the weary-looking typewriter that slumped against the rich cherry wood writing table whereon it sat.

Glancing about the room for any sign of the author, Belle cautiously glanced over the typewriter, scanning its inserted page and relishing the deliciously concocted steam of words that had thus far graced its smooth surface.

There came a grunt of distaste from behind her, and Belle was so startled that her grip on the teacup in her hands faltered, and she dropped her full cup of tea to the floor by her feet. The steaming liquid splashed across her stalking feet and best pair of black heels, and the teacup itself landed against the hardwood floor with a sudden cry of breaking glass. Belle turned to see a pair of dark brown eyes boring into her own, accompanied by the most reprimanding grimace that she had ever seen. Belle had never met Adam Gold before, but his reputation preceded him, as did his trademark grimace from the few times she had seen his photograph online or in the tabloids.

"I… I am so, so sorry!" Belle stammered, bending to retrieve the teacup, "It's just a chip; I'll be more than happy to have it fixed, or perhaps pay for a replacement for you?"

"It's just a cup" Mr. Gold said offhandedly, his Scottish accent even thicker in person. He moved to sit on the chaise opposite his writing desk, eyes looking Belle up and down. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks and glanced down at the floor self-consciously. Moving to sit at the less luxurious of the two chairs, Belle felt her tired back aching against the awkwardly carved wood of her chair. "Well. You're dreadfully young to be a literary agent. Are you quite sure that you're not just some intern who got lost on the way to the mailroom?"

Belle's blush deepened, and her mouth set into a straight line of determination. It was not the first time that someone had commented on her young age for such a high profile position, and while she was only entry-level, she was still much younger than most of the literary agents at her agency.

Seeing that she was not going to respond, Mr. Gold continued, "Let me guess; you're an Oxford graduate of English with a minor in Journalism and a Master's in Publishing."

"Ph D., actually," Belle sniffed, pulling her briefcase up into her lap defensively. "How did you guess?"

Mr. Gold smirked, eyeing her up and down again, "You've got Oxford written all over you."

Ashley chose this moment to tentatively enter the room.

"Mr. Gold?" She said, placing his afternoon tea and a stack of memo pages on his desk, "I'm heading out for the day; your phone messages are all here and accounted for.

"Mr. Gold nodded dismissively and waved her away, turning to flip through the memos Ashley had left him. Grimacing, he grunted. "Ugh, that witch. What in tarnation does she want?"

Belle quirked an eyebrow at him, reaching into her briefcase for Mr. Gold's client file folder. "If I had to guess, I'd say she wants the manuscript that you've promised her." Mr. Gold grunted again, turning his attention to the file folder as she unfolded it and began to spread some paperwork across his desk.

"Alright," Belle began, turning her attention back toward him, "Let's go through your contracts and accounts."

"Well, how was it?" Belle had never in her life been so thankful to hear her boss's gruff voice. "If he was rough with you, don't take it personally, sister. He's always been one of our toughest clients."

Belle leaned back on her sofa, swirling her Merlot around in its wine glass as she considered. Safe in the comforts of her small bachelor apartment, she was finally able to reflect on her first day working with Mr. Gold. "Honestly, he wasn't as bad as I thought he would be. He certainly doesn't live up to the same calibre of ferocity that his editor gave me when we first spoke."

Leroy puffed out a laugh, "Well, no surprise there. Someone slipped something in that woman's juice when she was in diapers. Or dropped her on her head."

Belle had to laugh at that. The publishing industry had hardened Leroy considerably; he was no longer the optimistic literary enthusiast who had travelled to New York in his teens with twenty dollars in his pocket and a crazy dream to be the next great North American novelist. He was a veteran literary agent now, with a passion for his work. And it was this mature and seasoned love for the written word that had guided Belle through her academic journey, from her first undergraduate internship to her first job in the field. Leroy saw something of his younger self in Belle, and had known for many years now that their shared passion was one and the same. "That's my girl. Don't let him scare you, sister."

Belle laughed, a bemused smile on her face as she glanced out to the street below. Bustling crowds were meandering through the gently falling snow, huddling in closer to one another to ward off the cold of the chilly winter's evening.

"Why does night always fall so fast in New York?" Belle mused aloud.

She didn't need to see Leroy to know that he was shrugging, "Us New Yorkers don't need daylight in a city that don't sleep." Sensing an undertone of longing in Belle's voice that he recognized from conversations that the two of them had shared in the past, Leroy ventured to ask, "Belle, are you sure that you made the right decision in coming here? I'd hate to think that I pressured you…"

"Don't talk nonsense, Leroy," Belle dismissed him quickly, although her longing as she watched the people below her interacting, being together, did not dissipate. "I don't have time to be lonely here."

"I can believe that, what with juggling Mr. Gold," Leroy said, "but I can't help but feel like I lead you away from England only to offer you a stressful job with not nearly enough benefits… And then there was the matter of your fiancé…"

Belle abruptly cut him off then, "It's okay, Leroy, really. You're worrying over nothing; Gaston and I were already over… very over. I Was in need of a change of scenery, and if there's one thing New York can offer, it's that."

Leroy nodded in understanding, glancing out his own window at the office. "Rest up, Belle."

"Night," Belle said, gently placing her phone back on its receiver. Curling her cold sock feet underneath her, she tugged her wool throw closer around her and flipped open the second in a tall stack of books beside her. She had read three of Mr. Gold's books in the past, but she would need to delve into his work if she was going to have a complete sense of him as a client. Taking another sip of her wine, she began.