Day 5

Needlework is not for Lacey French. No, as soon as she finishes this interminable scarf, her days of crocheting are over. For as long as she lives, she's never attempting another handmade project.

Once again, the scarf came partially unraveled during the night, and what's even stranger is that it somehow migrated overnight from its hiding place under the bed in her room to the floor of the guest bathroom.

Maybe Shaw is playing a trick on her? Either that, or she's losing her mind.

At this point, the yarn has been dragged all over the house and it will probably be too filthy for Shaw to consider wearing with his classy overcoats. She can see him now: opening her gift, giving her a tight, polite smile and a clipped thank you, then shoving her creation into the bowels of the hallway closet—never to be seen again.

But she's determined to finish it, no matter what. Tonight she's sleeping with the damn thing under her pillow so it can't go on any late night travels. Perhaps the Crochet Fairy will visit and lend her a helping hand.

Fortunately, she can work on it throughout the day while she mans the shop. Gold is out collecting rent payments and won't be home till evening. This chance couldn't have come at a better time. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and both hours and miracles are in short supply.

Meanwhile, she tries not to let the customers feel like they're badgering her, even though she wants to lock the door and flip the shop sign to Closed.

Look at them out there. She twists her mouth at the sight of the busy, bustling streets. People are calling out greetings to each other and carrying enormous shopping bags overflowing with wrapped packages. The entire town is running around like they've eaten too many candy canes—strung out on sugar and holiday cheer.

Lacey looks down at the half-finished scarf in disgust; if she didn't love Shaw so much, she'd douse the thing in whisky and watch it explode in the fireplace.

The bell above the entrance rings, announcing a visitor. Lacey shoves the scarf and crochet hook under her chair and pivots toward the door with what she hopes is a welcoming smile. Her experience at the nail salon taught her the value of customer service—nice girls get bigger tips. However, the pawnshop is successful because it offers treasures available nowhere else in town, not because she or Gold are social butterflies. The pleasantries fade as soon as she identifies the customer—Emma Swan.

What the hell is she doing here?

"How can I help you, officer?" Lacey arches her back like a cat, immediately defensive.

"Hello, Miss French."

Lacey ignores the greeting and nods toward the sparkling display cases. "Looking for a gift? Mother, brother, father...boyfriend?"

Emma glances out the shop window as Regina Mills struts by in a skin-tight car coat, and a faint blush paints the officer's creamy complexion as she watches the mayor.

"Ah, maybe your girlfriend?" Lacey taunts, thrilled to have discovered a chink in the cop's armor.

"No. No, I'm not dating anyone," Emma says, looking at the floor.

"Pity."

A long, uncomfortable silence fills the store.

"So what brings you into our shop, if you're not going to buy anything?" Lacey sounds possessive, she knows, but that's too damn bad. Emma Swan should learn to keep her distance from Lacey or anything that belongs to her…especially her fiancé.

"Just looking for Shaw"—the sheriff's pupils dilate as if realizing her mistake and she backpedals when Lacey takes a step forward. "I mean, uh, Mr. Gold. Is he here?"

"No."

"Well would you tell him I came by, please?"

"Is he under arrest?" The sheriff's patient, even tone is making Lacey crazy.

Emma's eyes widen and she sneezes once, twice, three times. "Of course not."

"Then I'm sure I can help you with whatever it is you could possibly need." Lacey digs her nails into her palms in an effort to keep her composure. She doesn't want this woman anywhere near her Shaw.

"I'm afraid this business is between me and Mr. Gold." Emma smiles sheepishly.

The sheriff seems sincere, but Lacey doesn't trust her.

"You're not his type," she says, her voice as steely as her nerves.

"Excuse me?"

"Gold." She looks Emma over like there's something wrong with her, wanting her to feel as small and stupid as she feels right now. "He doesn't care for blondes."

"Is that what you think?" Emma sputters. "That I'm-I'm after your fiancé?"

"Aren't you?"

"Nothing could be further from the truth." Emma holds up her hands, a gesture of surrender, and pulls out a small pad of paper. "Look, I'm sorry for bothering you. Just tell him I came by, all right?" She scribbles her phone number and rips it off the pad, handing it to Lacey.

Emma sneezes three more times in succession and heads out into the cold.

Lacey waits until the biting wind slams the door behind Emma before crumpling the paper in her clenched fist. She hurls the phone number into the trash with all her might.

She flops into her chair in a huff, and returns to crocheting. Her whole body is shaking with fury, and when she squints into the light to survey her work, the stitches are too big. She has to frog three entire rows. She rips them out fiercely, muttering angry nonsense to the empty shop.

The bell over the door rings again.

"What. Now?" Lacey shoves her ball of yarn behind her back and glares toward the front.

"Only me, Lace." Ruby says, brushing snow off her long, raven locks. Her heavily lined eyes narrow in suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"I would believe you, but there's a string on your skirt…attached to a ball of yarn." Ruby covers her mouth with her hand, failing to stifle a giggle.

It must look strange to Ruby, the sight of her former drinking buddy trying her hand at something so domestic. Last year, the pair of them closed down the Rabbit Hole on Christmas Eve, both of them stumbling home while singing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" at the top of their lungs.

"Fine." Lacey chews her thumbnail and pulls the yarn out from behind her back. "I might be crocheting a scarf for Gold's Christmas present."

"No kidding." Ruby whistles in appreciation.

"Why so surprised? I am marrying the guy."

"Yeah, but I thought you were hitching your wagon to that gelding for the money," Ruby drawls, leaning against the display case.

"He's a stallion." She pins Ruby with a punishing stare. "And no."

"Wow."

"Now what?" Lacey wants to get back to her project. She was in a rhythm, and now Emma Swan and Ruby have spoiled it. Between the spontaneous unraveling, the sneaking around, and the constant interruptions, she might have a shot at finishing Shaw's scarf by his birthday in mid-June.

"You really do love him, don't you? You're, like, in this for keeps." Ruby doesn't even try to mask her surprise, evident in her widened eyes.

"Shut up."

"So," Ruby eyes the pile of yarn in Lacey's lap, "having trouble with your knitting?"

"It's crochet," Lacey snaps.

"Oh, it's crochet," Ruby mimics, rolling her eyes. "Who the hell died and made you Martha Stewart?"

Lacey sighs; it's not Ruby's fault she sucks at crafting. "Sorry. These stupid chain stitches keep coming unraveled and the damn thing is all wonky looking."

"Why don't you just dazzle Gold with something store-bought and paid for with his credit card?"

The implication that she's a kept woman crawls beneath her skin. "I make my own money and have my own areas of responsibility. He can't even find the computer without me."

She winces, hating herself for selling Shaw out. It's wrong to expose his very few, very minor weak points, but damn it— Ruby knows exactly which buttons to push to piss her off.

"Oh really? Sounds like he's the one calling all the shots."

"Jealous?" Lacey snorts. She's secure in Shaw's motivations for employing her, and she loves the fact that they work at the shop together.

"Maybe I am." Ruby concedes with a nod and a smile. "Hey! Why don't you have Granny help you? She's an old pro at needlework."

Lacey can't deny that the idea has appeal. It would be so easy to coax Granny Lucas to crochet the scarf for her, tearing out all her mistakes and presenting Gold with a gift as perfect as he is.

"Nope. That's cheating." Lacey shakes her head. "I want to do this myself."

"Suit yourself." Ruby backs out the door and calls out over her shoulder: "Text me if you change your mind."

xoxo

After dinner, Gold heads upstairs to change. It's been a long day of haggling with renters and he's tired. In an uncharacteristically unselfish move, he forgave several partial payments and even allowed a few tenants to defer to the new year. Recalling their relieved expressions, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Being in love at Christmastime agrees with him.

He opens the closet door to hang up his suit and tie, when the glitter of two little eyeballs catches his attention. The kitten is lounging in his dry cleaning basket, stretched out on top of his favorite pinstripe and chewing on a small plush bear wearing a grey and red winter hat.

Her ears perk up when she sees him, and he swears she's grinning. Women.

"So there you are," he says, swiping the ravaged decoration and wagging a finger at her. "Don't urinate or eat any more of my things."

Feeling foolish for talking to a kitten, he clucks his tongue at himself; it's not as though she can understand his orders.

The cat's unexpected presence in the closet gives him an idea, though, and he's thankful that Lacey's belongings still occupy the finest guest bedroom. Once they marry, how will this closet even hold all her shoes, much less her clothing and his?

"Only two more days of keeping up this charade," he whispers to himself.

To his surprise, Lacey hadn't said anything about the layers of tinfoil he wrapped around the base of the tree to discourage the kitten from climbing the trunk. At least the puss had enough sense not to rip apart the Christmas tree.

While Lacey washes the supper dishes, Gold sneaks the food and water bowls and the litter box out of the pantry. Sneaking around and lying to his sweetheart makes him feel guilty, even for a good cause. He takes all the kitten supplies upstairs, putting them all in the closet along with the kitten's shoebox.

"Stay," he says, then taps the litter box with his foot. "And do your business in here, beastie, not on my Armani."

When he comes back downstairs, Lacey is curled up on the loveseat, staring intently at her phone and flicking her fingers across the screen in quick, agitated strokes.

Yesterday it was the laptop and now it's the dreaded iPhone. His ancient flip phone is more than enough technology for his tastes. Can't they have an electronic-free Christmas? The trouble with living in a 140-character world, Gold muses, is that people seem more interested in posting about each other than spending time together.

"What are you looking at on that thing?" he asks, side-eying the phone.

"What are you doing hanging around with Sheriff Swan?" she counters, twisting her lips. "She came to see you today."

"Oh, did she?" He studies his fingernails, his expression carefully blank. "I'm sure it was nothing."

"Yeah, ok." Her voice drips with sarcasm and she rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.

He looks at her helplessly; what is he supposed to do? Admit that he'd sought out Emma and begged her to keep the kitten for a couple of days so he could surprise his future wife? Unfortunately, the sheriff is allergic to cats, but it had been worth a try. Now, thanks to his poor planning, Lacey's jealous streak is rearing its ugly head. Much as her devotion thrills him, he doesn't want to compound this misunderstanding any further.

"You know, I'm not some stupid kid who works at your shop and lives in your home." She narrows her eyes. "I can tell when you're hiding something from me."

"Our shop and our home," he says. "Say I am hiding something—hypothetically speaking. Maybe it's not what you think." He winks, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Maybe it's exactly what I think," Lacey snaps.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Lass, why don't you come to bed? You've been up late several nights in a row. You're not getting enough rest."

"Right. Sorry Dad."

"I don't know why you're pitching a fit with me, you're…you're the one who's been glued to a screen every night this week! What are you doing, exactly?"

Lacey jerks back as if she's been slapped, and Gold instantly regrets the accusation. It's rather hypocritical of him to grill her when he knows full well he's keeping a secret of his own.

"You know what?" She tosses the mobile phone down on the couch. "You can sleep on your side of the bed tonight. Don't even think about crossing the median. Actually, screw that: I'm sleeping in my own room tonight. It is still my room, right?"

"The twenty pairs of over-the-knee boots prove it!" he thunders, his patience snapping.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Glaring, she pushes off the couch and stomps toward the stairs. Rapping his cane against the floor, he follows, hot on her heels. Jockeying for position, they clomp up the staircase like a herd of elephants, elbowing each other all the way up to the landing.

"Lacey, wait." He grabs her arm; going to bed angry on the eve of Christmas Eve isn't the way to head into the holiday.

"For what?" She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her bare foot.

"The only relationship between Emma Swan and me is a professional one—she's the sheriff and I'm a citizen."

"I believe you," she says, dropping her stiff posture and softening her voice.

"You do?" He can't believe she's backing down this easily.

"Yeah." She shuffles her feet. "Look, I know you would never wrong me. I just need some space tonight, okay?"

He nods, stung by the rejection but accepting her desire for independence. "Yes, of course. If that's what you want."

"Good night, Shaw." She moves down the hall to the guest room.

"Good night, lass."

Once he settles into bed, he hears a soft mewing and scratching at the closet door. On the bright side, at least sleeping separately from Lacey will make hiding the cat easier. But he doesn't want to make this a habit.

He opens the closet, scoops up the kitten, and drops her into her cozy shoe box. "Come on," he says, climbing back into bed and depositing the box on Lacey's side of the mattress. "You can keep me company tonight."

The kitten crawls out of the box and climbs on top of him, settling against his heart. Gold peels one eye open; she's staring intently at his face, her tiny ears forward and alert. "All right. You can use me as a pillow. But just for tonight."

Bringing a tentative hand to the kitten's tiny back, he strokes her fur until he falls asleep.

###

Up Next: The conclusion of Seven Days of Christmas