Lacey French sits gingerly on the edge of the hospital bed, glaring at her favorite blue stilettos. Whale already signed her discharge papers with a smarmy smile, and all that's left to do is finish dressing and go. The trek home from Storybrooke Memorial is going to hurt like hell, but these are the only shoes she's got. Her only other possessions—a black mesh handbag with a roll of damp dollar bills and her favorite tube of lipstick—sit in a plastic bin at her feet.

If Ariel and Ruby weren't covering her shifts, she'd ask one of them to run to her apartment for some flats and give her a lift home. But there's no sense in dwelling on ifs.

She toes on a shoe and the heel gives out, snapping in half.

Shit. Barefoot it is.

Lacey shrugs; this won't be the first time she's walked without shoes. November nights in northern Main are cold, but at least it's not snowing.

Footsteps echo on the floor outside her room, and Lacey swings her legs back into bed. The quick motion makes her dizzy, but maybe it'll buy her a little more time. Whale's been panting after her for a while, and maybe she can sweet talk her way into another night's stay.

"Hey, lass." It's not the sleazy doctor, but Mr. Gold, rapping on the half-open door.

Morning sunlight streams the windows, illuminating the smile on his annoyingly handsome face. There's a thin white box tucked under his arm and a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" Lacey fixes her gaze on the Spanish soap opera on TV and crosses her arms over her chest. She can't understand a word they're saying, but that hardly matters; she wants Gold to feel as unwelcome as she does uneasy.

He doesn't take the hint.

Gold sets down the flowers—brilliant orange Tiger Lilies—and holds out the box. Raspberry dark chocolate creams; she recognizes the flashy silver label from the fancy candy store on the other side of town. She gives the box a nasty scowl. How dare he show up unannounced and be nice?

"I'm here to check on the patient," he says, leaning forward to touch the bruise on her forehead.

"It was an overnight for observation. And I can take care of myself," she says, ducking her head. The warm, calloused pad of his thumb makes contact with her skin, his tender touch overwhelming her with the urge to cry. A traitorous tear squeezes out before she can stop it and splatters on the crumpled bedsheet.

xoxo

Gold pretends not to notice Lacey's tears.

Relief doesn't begin to describe his feelings at seeing her awake and snarling at him. When he'd gotten the call from Sheriff Swan, it had taken all his restraint not to rush to the hospital to see her, but Lacey wouldn't have tolerated such an obvious display. Instead he'd called the nurses' station on her floor every hour demanding status updates. Now her eyes are snapping with indignant fire and he wants to kiss the sneer off that smart mouth of hers.

"You must think I'm frickin' stupid, Gold," she says, flipping her cold gaze between him and the gifts.

Oh, yes, she was going to be just fine. Still, Gold chooses his next words with caution. "Stupid? You? Quite the contrary." He shakes his head. "I know you to be one of the most clever women of my acquaintance."

She narrows her gaze. "One of the most clever?"

"I deducted a few points after you stole my car last night," he says.

"Borrowed," she mutters, boring holes into the white box in her hands.

"Borrowed?" He crosses his arms. "Oh, I see. Is that what they call it when you filch the keys from a man's nightstand?"

"I had someplace to be."

"So you leave my bed in the middle of the night without a single word?" he asks.

"We're not exclusive, Gold. That was never the arrangement."

"Tell that to my Cadillac." He retrieves her short leather jacket from a peg on the wall, grateful for an excuse to busy his shaking hands.

The comment hits its target. Lacey sees him as nothing more than an outlet for sexual release; he's a warm body on a frigid night and maybe, if he's lucky, the source of a square meal and an intelligent conversation. For the past four months, she'd offered him her body, but not her heart. But when it comes to Lacey French, Gold is nothing if not selfish.

He wants it all, and he's finally finagled a way to get it.

"Come on, Lead Foot. Get dressed. We have a new arrangement now."

"What do you mean?" She leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes.

"They've released you into my care."

She jerks up, her back ramrod straight. "Who has?"

"The hospital staff." He snorts and picks up her broken high heel. "You have a concussion, Lacey. Did you think they'd let you waltz out of here on these ridiculous excuses for shoes?"

"Like hell. I'm going home."

"You no longer have a home."

"Bastard," she says, clenching her teeth. Then in a tiny voice she asks, "You evicted me?"

"No, lass." A frisson of fear courses through him and he skims the hospital chart at the foot of the bed, looking for symptoms of memory loss. "You crashed the car into your apartment building, remember?"

"That part's a little fuzzy," she says, rubbing at the tender spot on her crown. "And don't call me that."

"Lass," he repeats, drawing the word out in his rough brogue. Whenever he's worried about her—which is often—he falls back into teasing. As long as she holds up her end of the bickering, he knows she's ok.

His Lacey loathes sympathy.

"I want a room at Granny's," she says.

"All occupied by the rest of the tenants you evicted." He points his cane at her. "Fortunately, no one else was injured."

"What about the hotel across…"

"Full."


The truth comes out, the real reason why he's here. Lacey curls her hands into the cold metal bedrails. Gold doesn't give a crap about her; he's here to taunt and cast blame.

"Son of a bitch," she says. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little." He shrugs.

"So what's the deal?" she asks, releasing her grip on the bedrails and the situation. Her head is still throbbing and she's too tired to think anymore.

"I spoke with Sheriff Swan. I've agreed not to press charges and to handle all the liabilities and costs incurred by my tenants and my building and my car. In exchange, you agree to fourteen days of community service of my choice," he says.

"Two weeks of free labor?" Stunned, she jerks to her feet. The motion is too sudden and she rests her hips against the bed like a weakling. "Why fourteen? And why the hell can't you hire help like everybody else?"

"It's a nice number," he says, flashing a crooked smile that cracks the rampart around her angry heart. "Surely you can endure a mere handful of days in my presence."

"Weekends too?"

"Shopkeepers work long hours," he says with a nod.

"Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?" she whines, her mind whirling with excuses. "That stupid cot in the workroom?"

"Oh, no." He rubs his hands together, and she shivers at the primal glint of possession in his eyes. "That's the best part, Lacey. While you work for me, you live at my house."


Day 1 – Saturday

So far, staying at Gold's is a total drag.

After they sprang her from the hospital, David Nolan had driven them back to the pink mansion in his animal rescue van. Lacey's nostrils flared and her stomach roiled as the freezing rain intensified the smell of wet dog wafting from the back.

"Sorry about the travel accommodations, lass," Gold said when a sodden golden retriever wedged between them and licked her cheek. "I didn't have time to rent you a limousine."

"Whatever," Lacey muttered, frowning as she brushed fur off her mini-dress.

That sloppy kiss from a wet dog had been the highlight of her long, boring day.

For hours now she's been stretched out on the four-poster in Gold's classiest guestroom, leafing through fashion magazines, chewing strawberry bubblegum, and snacking on S'mores pop tarts. He's been upstairs to check on her twice, bearing trays laden with food, coffee, pain meds, and back issues of French Vogue. Ordinarily a stretch of leisure time would be a thrill, but hearing the faint sounds of puttering and the clang of pots and pans in the kitchen makes her skin itch. When did Gold become so domestic? Why won't he come up here and argue with her, or flip her onto her back and ride her into the mattress till neither of them can see straight?

With a sigh, she sets aside her bottle of glittery gold nail polish and blows on the freshly applied coat. She rewinds to the other night, before she took his car keys and ran.

Remembering sours her already black mood. They'd had a good thing going for few months. Then he had to go and screw everything up. It had been as perfect an evening as Lacey ever hoped to spend—takeout lasagna from the coffee shop, Netflix, and incredible sex.

That's when it went wrong. Hovering above her, their sticky skins clinging to one another, he'd stared into her eyes and uttered words she'd never expected to hear from anyone again: I love you.

Lies spouted in the heat of passion.

She'd lain there for a while, tense and confused, waiting until she heard a soft snore. As soon as he was asleep she bolted— grabbing his keys, firing up his Caddy, and driving away as fast as she could. Intent on her getaway, she barely remembered the drive home. Somehow her five-inch heel had wedged under the gas pedal and she'd crashed—right into her apartment building.

His fault. Every damn bit of it.

Since she can't yell at him and throw things at his head when he's not in the room, she pulls out her phone and fires off a text: "What are you doing?"

"Evening," he greets a minute later, balancing a supper tray in the doorway. "Couldn't respond to your message. My hands are full."

Steam wafts from two bowls, the homey aroma of chicken noodle soup perfuming the air. For the second time today, Lacey wants to cry. Homemade soup? She can't recall the last time someone cooked for her. Several times Gold had offered, but she had always declined—she ate takeout only. No eating in restaurants, no home cooking. Fewer entanglements that way.

"Don't you have to work?" she snaps. "I thought shop owners had to be in their stores, like, every day." She doesn't like the way Gold bringing her dinner in bed makes her feel.

"Yes, but I closed the shop today so I could stay here with you," he says, setting the tray down on the dresser.

"At least you're eating with me. I don't have leprosy, you know. Besides, if I'd wanted to be coddled like a baby, I would have stayed at the hospital. I hate being forced to lie in bed alone." She pouts, turning her best sultry glance on him and pats the empty side of the bed. "Why don't you come over here and sit beside me?"

Gold laughs and scoots the rocking chair in the corner closer to the bed. "Another day or two of rest, then you'll be on your feet. I promise it won't last long."

"What about…"

"I've already called Nail Fetish and told them you'd be back to work in two weeks' time," he says.

"Sounds like you thought of everything," she says petulantly, scrutinizing her manicure.

"Indeed I have," he says, folding his hands. "Now eat your soup like a good lass.

Frustrated by his rejection, she covers her hurt with a roll of her eyes. He's too much in control here in his pretty guestroom in his pretty house, and it's time to shift the balance back in her favor. Lacey wets her lower lip and lifts the spoon for a taste. It's surprisingly good, the flavors of chicken, carrots, and celery singing in her mouth. "Mmmmm," she purrs, watching Gold watch her eat.

His whiskey eyes spark with need, and she smirks and licks the length of the spoon with the flat of her tongue, her gaze holding his. Gold rewards her with a small shudder and drops his own spoon.

Glancing down at his tight, tented trousers, Lacey continues to slurp her soup, satisfied to have won this round.


Day 2 – Sunday

Shaw Gold hadn't been looking for love.

Hell, he hadn't been looking to become a serial pedicure patron, either.

He looks down at his neat toes, water from his ice-cold shower sluicing down his body and pooling at his feet. In the privacy of his bathroom, his frustrated groan echoes off the tile walls. Two days down, twelve to go. Living under the same roof with Lacey is more challenging than he could have imagined. His lips tingle in her presence; his arms ache with the need to hold her.

Oh, he's assured of his welcome between her thighs. Lacey's seductive glances and maddening touches over the past forty-eight hours have made her fleshly desires more than clear, but Gold doesn't want sex. Far more important during their time together is to prove to Lacey that she is so much more than a good time. Show her that she is safe. Make her understand that he loves her, now and always.

If only she would believe the truth.

Tonight, as they'd watched French Kiss on Netflix, she ran her hand up his thigh, tracing circles along the sensitive skin near his groin. He groaned and shifted away.

"What is it with you?" she asked.

"I told you. While you're here under my roof, I refuse to take advantage of you like some kind of monster," he says, trying to be patient as he explains his reasoning yet again.

There's more between us than sex, he wants to say, but he doesn't. That will only scare her away.

Thank God tomorrow is Monday and they'll be working in the shop. At least there, in semi-public, he can trust her to behave. Maybe.

No, he wasn't looking for love. But five months ago it had found him in an unexpected place.

For weeks he'd been ignoring an ingrown toenail. One afternoon, his big toe throbbing inside his shoe as he walked the streets collecting rent payments, he hobbled reluctantly through the doors of a small nail salon a few blocks away from the pawnshop.

And who should greet him at the counter but nail technician and resident barfly Lacey French. He knew of her, of course. Storybrooke was a small town and he'd crossed paths with her at the Rabbit Hole on more than one occasion. On a rare evening, when he wanted to be surrounded by noise and people, Gold would sit at the bar and sneak looks at her over his scotch while she swilled tequila shots and hustled the local boys at pool.

Yet for all her late-night carousing and hard living, never once had she missed mailing her rent check on time.

Inside the salon, she motioned him back to her workstation, her skintight spandex mini dress highlighting every curve; her auburn hair swept to the side in a tousled ponytail that revealed a long, elegant neck.

Helpless to resist the graceful sway of her hips, he trailed after her like a lapdog.

Precious few people surprised Gold, but Lacey was a rare exception.

Bending over his injured toe, she eased him into a cushy leather chair then submerged his feet into a hot tub of water swirling with salt. Those small, soft hands were gentle and certain, her touch soothing as she stuffed tiny bits of cotton between the nail and the skin and dabbed ointment on the swollen digit.

Lacey's fingers played his feet like instruments. Like magic, her touch was not too light to tickle, but not too firm to hurt. Gold never knew a pedicure could feel this good, nor had he known what a witty and intelligent mind hid behind those haughty blue eyes.

"Got a wife?" she asked.

"No."

"Girlfriend then?"

"Hardly."

"Impossible. Rich, successful, handsome man like you?" She laughed, the sound musical and enchanting. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife," she quipped.

"Ah, you know Austen," he said, smiling up at her as she trimmed his nails. Despite all the warning signs that this woman was trouble, his heart began to pump to a rhythm he'd long forgotten. "I wonder what else we have in common."

How many people had bothered to take the time to talk to her?

"Everyone knows that line," she said, tossing her head. "You like Van Halen? You're a Hagar man, aren't you?"

He stared at her. To be sure he'd heard of Van Halen.

"We have nothing in common," she said, slapping a hot towel against his right shin. "Now why don't you close your eyes and relax, let me do my job, hmmm?"

Grinning, he did as she suggested, ridiculously pleased to have riled her.

On the following Tuesday he returned for another pedicure and set up a standing weekly appointment.

Little by little, week by week, he coaxed her out of her protective shell, learning her preferences for Italian food and mint chip ice cream, fashion magazines and football games.

One rainy afternoon about two months into their acquaintance, when the salon was almost empty, she had offered to massage an organ a bit higher than his feet. Dumbstruck that a woman so beautiful and smart could possibly desire a middle aged cripple of below-average looks and height, he'd accepted her no-strings offer and brought her back to his home to spend the night.

Bad decision.

Given time, he'd thought they could move beyond their physical connection, that he could win her wild yet fragile heart. A gorgeous woman had asked to sleep with him; all he had to do was make her fall in love with him. Now, after five months of seeing her, he knew he had grossly misjudged the situation. As determined as he was to court her, she was determined to refuse his overtures.

Securing her agreement to accept his community service bargain had been easier than he'd expected, and a flicker of light illuminated his dark world. Too late, it occurred to him that she was working him over like a pool table, making his mission to woo her as difficult as possible. Would she ever accept his feelings as real and confront her own?

Until she did, he refused to make love to her, and she was not happy about being shut down.

Tonight, before he'd come upstairs to retire, she had taunted him for spurning her advances, calling him Grandpa Gold. Stung by her coldness, he'd risen from the loveseat and handed her the remote.

"Good night, Lacey," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Think of me when you touch yourself tonight," she whispered, surprising him by grabbing his hand and crushing it against her supple breast. "I'll be thinking of you."

Once he had gained the staircase he released a needy shudder, turning away from the den as she buried her hand between her velvet thighs.


Day 3 – Monday

Lacey never rises before noon, and the chipper show tune Gold is whistling as he moves around the kitchen grates on her nerves. There's nothing beautiful about mornings—no matter what the damn song says.

Slouched at the breakfast bar, she takes sulky sips of coffee as he slides over-easy eggs and crispy bacon onto two plates. She should offer to wash dishes or slice some fruit, but she's still pissed at him for waking her up so friggin' early.

An hour ago he'd marched into her room and thrown open the curtains before whipping the covers back and dragging her toward the bathroom. As steam from the hot shower rose around them, Lacey dropped her robe and crooked a finger at him with a lazy smile. "You're welcome to join me in here, Gold. Plenty of space."

Recalling his panicked face, his mouth slack as he ogled her naked chest, she smiles. She never saw a man turn tail and run quite that fast.

Now that she's his guest/prisoner for the next several days, she's torn between demonstrating her value and behaving like a sloth. Either way, she'll evoke a response. That's what she loves about being with Gold. He sees her. Tomorrow she'll get up first and make waffles. Maybe.

While he cleans the breakfast dishes, she slips into the hallway to glance at herself in the mirror, her face flushing with pleasure at the sophisticated beauty reflected there. She loves the new deep purple silk blouse and black leather pencil skirt she's wearing.

Yesterday Gold had his property manager Dove deliver some clothes and boxes of shoes, claiming they were from her apartment. The sneak (Gold or Dove, she wasn't sure) had removed the tags and sussed out some of her favorite pieces to make her believe the entire load of couture was actually from her closet. But Lacey has only ever dreamed of having material this fine next to her skin, and the hemlines are a dead giveaway. All the skirts are a couple of inches longer than she prefers—a nod to the gentleman in Gold—but she's not going to argue with a closetful of stunning new clothes free of charge.

She is, however, going to gripe about compulsory exercise.

"How much farther is it?" she complains as they walk to the pawnshop.

Gold has been droning on about rules and expectations. No drinking at work, no hustling the customers…blah, blah, blah. Her new heels are pinching her toes and she's a bit out of breath from the exertion.

"We'll be there soon," he says.

"We've been walking for at least fifteen minutes." She sparks a cigarette and Gold pinches the light between thumb and forefinger.

"Smoking is bad for young lungs, lass," he says, flicking a bit of ash off his long fingers.

"This is ridiculous," she says, stuffing the pack of Marlboro Lights into her blouse when he tries to snatch them. "I'm outta here."

"You're welcome to spend the remainder of our time together in the illustrious town jail," he says with a careless shrug. "Care to share a toilet in a community cell while Storybrooke's finest look on?"

Lacey rolls her eyes, but decides against calling Gold's bluff. She detests cigarettes, anyway. Their allure is all about appearances. "Slave driver," she mutters, handing over her pack and lighter.


Day 4 – Tuesday

Lacey surveys the front of Gold's tidy shop with a smile, the antiques, jewelry, and leather-bound books attractively displayed in the sparkling cases after hours of elbow grease yesterday. She shifts an antique typewriter to the back counter, choking on the plume of dust it kicks up. Ok, so there's still some cleaning to do. The workroom through the curtain is littered with dust bunnies and the shelves sag under the weight of unfinished projects, but the small refrigerator is sparkling clean and stocked with Lacey's favorite snacks—Diet Cherry Coke and miniature bottles of Riesling, plus sliced cheddar cheese and apples.

Gold is bent over an antique vase with a magnifying glass, and Lacey smiles at the back of his head as she sips her soda and nibbles on an apple. All his small, thoughtful gestures are too much to believe, and gratitude inspires her to make him proud. He won't regret having her at the shop for these next two weeks.

"What's with the computer?" she asks after they split an order of lasagna and salad for lunch. She drums her nails against a sealed box containing a brand new laptop.

"You know me and technology," Gold says, gesturing toward his flip phone with an embarrassed flush.

Lacey recognizes that look. Inadequacy. It's a condition she's far too well acquainted with. Normally it's a weakness she'd exploit, and the rush of sympathy she feels catches her by surprise.

With his cultured accent, custom-made three-piece suits, and smooth manners, Lacey would swear Gold must know about everything. Secretly, she's pleased to discover an area to be useful beyond cleaning. Finding a chink or two in his sophisticated armor gives her the boost of confidence she needs and oddly increases her admiration for him.

"No worries, Gold," she says, cocking a hip in her favorite devil-may-care pose. "I'll have it up and running for you in no time."

"Great," he says, his expression brightening.

"Um, at the nail salon, I created a new accounting system. I could show you…" Suddenly nervous, she tugs at the hem of her skirt.

He waves a dismissive hand and her heart plummets. "Go ahead and set it up," he says meeting her eyes with a smile. "I trust you."

She can't stop the foolish grin that spreads across her face, nor can she resist issuing a challenge.

"I'll bet I can get this done by the close of business today," she says, bending over the laptop box to give Gold a tantalizing view of her rear end.

"You think so?" he asks, giving a pointed glance at his Rolex.

"Yes," she purrs, turning around to run her index finger down his tie, "but this level of productivity is going to cost you."

"What?" His brow wrinkles in adorable confusion and her heart picks up speed. Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

"If I win, you owe me a kiss." She darts her tongue out to wet her bottom lip, watching his eyes focus on her mouth.

He stiffens, clearing his throat. "And if I win? What do I get?"

"The satisfaction of being right," she says with a saucy smirk.

"No." He holds up a hand. "If I win, you stop trying to seduce me."

"That again?" she scoffs, making a show of rolling her eyes.

"Yes, that again. I want to court you properly," he says.

"Whatever." He can't possibly mean this romantic drivel. But don't men typically say these things to get a woman into bed, and not the other way around? Lacey files the thought away to consider later. After she wins this bet.

"Do we have a deal, Miss French?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"Deal." Lacey grasps his palm with a quick, firm pump and rips open the computer box.

###