Holiday

Chapter 4

Family Business

"You don't remember any of that do you?" Neal asked his father gently.

Gold bit his lip. "No. If that was a couple of months ago, I was going through a bad time. I remember that you were texting me but I don't remember anything you told me. You might have heard . . . "

"Yeah, I heard. You survived that attack, apparently, the only one in the party who did. Some PTSD mixed with some self-medication?"

Gold nodded. "Mostly prescription stuff – pain pills. It got pretty serious there. ATNN paid for me to go through some heavy therapy and rehab. I'm . . . mostly better. This is my first time out. I was going to call you but got caught up . . . uh . . . with some work."

"I am curious," Neal told him looking back at Belle. "Why are you here and who is this lovely creature you're with?"

"Oh, let me introduce you," Gold waved Belle over. "Belle, this is my son, Neal. I didn't realize that he was even in town. Running into him is an amazing coincidence."

"So nice to meet you," Belle told him extending her hand.

"Neal, this is Belle. She's . . . a friend. We're just spending today together. I'm showing her around Asheville," Gold continued the introduction.

"Well," Neal noticed Emma walking up. "I've got someone to introduce to you. I suspect you don't remember me telling you about her. This is my . . . girlfriend, serious girlfriend, Emma Swan. Emma, this is Belle."

"So nice to meet you," Belle extended her hand to Emma. Emma had never met the princess even though she'd been charged with some aspects of her security.

At the moment, Emma had disposed of the outward indicators of her job as a police officer. She looked like any other pretty young woman out for the afternoon with her special fellow.

"Nice meetin' you, too," Emma answered. Standing up close, Emma could see the young woman's flawless complexion, her shining hair, her perfect teeth. She was lovely. Emma actually recognized the little Target outfit from some of the photographs she had looked over when she took on the security detail, but the hair was totally changed – and not something you'd associate with a princess by any means.

"Emma, this is my dad. Usually, people just call him Gold," Neal finished introducing Emma. Emma knew about Neal's father – a mega-talented reporter who'd run into some trouble – something about giving up his seat to a soldier and, instead, he rode hanging on the back of a jeep. As she recalled the story, the jeep had been car bombed or hit with a missile, something like that. Everyone on board was killed, except the reporter who'd been blown away from the vehicle. He'd spiraled downhill after this and ended up with an opioid addiction and rehab. What was he doing out on the town with a royal princess? Did the princess know he was a reporter? Emma thought not. This was a story, a story he was working on, getting the real scoop on the everyday life of a runaway princess.

The foursome got on the Pubcycle. Neal and Emma drank a couple of beers. Belle indulged in what Gold suspected was her first beer, finishing it off with gusto while he managed to get a couple of choice pictures. He finished his soft drink – no alcohol for him; although alcohol had never been Gold's drug of choice, he had learned that he would be better off avoiding something potentially addictive – at least for a while.

Besides, he was on assignment and he didn't drink when he was working.

The group rode through the town, pumping the bicycle pedals and drinking beer and soft drinks. After the hour tour, the foursome got off, laughing and feeling relaxed.

Gold had been racking his brain, trying to remember about Neal's girlfriend. She was a breathtaking blonde. Gold had always favored brunettes, or the occasional redhead, himself. But there was something, something about Miss Swan. It was important and he should know it.

Jeez, the medications he'd been on had shot holes in his memory and he just couldn't pull it out.

"Listen," Gold told them. "I'm not ready to drive back to the hotel. What else is going on that we can walk to?"

"The Fall Craft Fair is in full swing down at the auditorium," Emma shared.

"I'm in," Gold said.

"Excellent," Belle agreed eagerly.

"There is also a ghost tour in the evening," Neal told them. "And more dancing in Biltmore Village."

"Well, I've got some things I need to take care of," Emma told them. "But I'd be up for the ghost tour. It's a walking tour. Starts at 8 o'clock," she told them.

Neal also begged off for the afternoon, sharing he had some other things to take care of but would meet up with them later in the day at Battery Park.

"Come on then," Gold told Belle and was surprised when she reached out to hold his hand.

They walked along going up the hill to the auditorium. "Still having fun?" Gold asked her.

"I am. I am. This is the most wonderful day I've ever had. Thank you, thank you so much for . . . being with me," she told him. She looked at him with absolute adoration and his thoroughly blackened heart melted just a little.

"What do you normally do with your day?" he asked.

"Oh . . . things . . . just things. I generally keep to a pretty rigid schedule. It gets wearing after a while."

"You said you worked in your family's business?" he asked.

"Yes, it's very . . . uh . . . high maintenance."

"It sounds like you're not very happy," he speculated.

"Well . . . sometimes. There are some real benefits, but . . . there are a lot of demands," she admitted.

"So, if you're aren't happy, why don't you quit?" he asked her.

"Oh. . . people in my family's business rarely . . . quit."

"Sounds kinda sad," he observed.

"It can be."

They turned the corner to walk to the auditorium's entrance and Belle shared, "I sometimes do think about quitting. My dad has thought about it too, but I don't know if either one of us would be able to go through with it," she said quietly.

"Really?" Now, this was a piece of news. King Maurice and Princess Isabella were considering giving up the throne?! What? Were they going to abdicate and let the next schmuck in line take over? Or were they going to dissolve the monarchy?

"Do you have time for a boyfriend?" he asked, remembering that Regina had wanted a love angle.

She laughed. "Not really, certainly no one special, although my father would very much like to see me get married and start on the grandbabies."

"So, you're not seeing anyone?" he pushed.

She shook her head. "Now, what do you do?" she turned on him.

"Me?! I . . . I just . . . I'm a writer," he stumbled as he tried to respond without telling her anything.

"Really? How very interesting. Anything I might have read?"

"Uh . . . probably not. It's dull . . . non-fiction . . . stuff about . . . . uh . . . . people . . . and places . . . and . . . uh . . . . things," he struggled. He glanced at her. She was watching him with amusement in her bright blue eyes.

"You seem unsure of what it is that you do for a living," she commented.

Gold inwardly cringed. The girl was bright and intuitive. He needed to backpedal quickly.

"It's just that I write a lot of technical stuff. . . very boring, nothing interesting, nothing romantic." Now, why had he said that?

"But to set your own hours . . . to write about things you find interesting, even if no one else does. To be free . . . unencumbered, to be able to make your own decisions," her voice drifted off.

"Well, I wouldn't say that. I have a bitch of a boss," he began.

She was smiling broadly at him. "I can't imagine you answering to a woman."

"Hey, my boss is not a woman. A woman is soft and . . . . comforting and makes a man feel special. My boss is hard and . . . well, she sure as hell doesn't make me feel special."

They were standing in a cool spot. Damn, she was beautiful . . . and soft. . . and comforting. He hadn't intended for anything to happen. This was a royal princess and probably half his age. . . He found himself looking into her eyes, the blueness reflecting the sky and he found himself falling into them. She seemed so warm, so inviting. It was only for a moment, but she tilted her face up to his and there was barely an inch between their lips and one of them, both of them, closed the distance, touching their lips together, a chaste kiss, a tender kiss.

For Belle, it was her first kiss.

Oh, but she wanted more, so much more, so very much more.

They separated and he cleared his throat. Jeez, he hadn't had any beer, but he was acting drunk. "I'm sorry, that was over the line," he quickly apologized. "We don't really know each other . . . And I . . . "

"It was lovely," Belle whispered. "Let's do it again," and this time she was the one who closed the distance. Gold found himself fully engaged in the kiss, gently nudging her soft petal lips open, sensing that this was new for her, but that she was willing and eager. She was sweet and responsive. Somehow during the kiss, their hands had come up and wrapped around each other. He was holding her head in one hand and the other had twined around her waist, pulling her closer. She had brought her arms up and around him so that she could hold onto him. She opened to him, her own sweet flavor flooding him, the warmth of her body seeping into his. He felt he could lean against her and she would hold him upright.

They separated and he was momentarily stunned. He didn't know which way to go, what to do.

"Thank you," she said to him. "That was . . . remarkable."

"Yes, yes it was," he agreed. It was more than remarkable. His blood had sung, his body had responded, his instincts had all kicked in, including those that said to drag her into the nearest alley and ravage her and those other instincts that said he needed to take care of her and protect her.

"I . . . uh. . . I guess, we need to head on to the auditorium for the Craft Show," he told her.

"I guess," she smiled at him. And they walked, with her linking her arm in his.

He brought them admission tickets and they began to weave their way through the crowds walking through the show. Belle stopped to look at . . . nearly everything. She liked the stained glass, the pottery, the hand woven clothing, the fine wood crafted items, the funny puppets. She especially liked the handcrafted, artist-created jewelry, her own fashion-conscious eye drawn to some of the exquisite designs.

Unable to stop himself, Gold bought her one of the silver necklaces that she had admired. He used the company credit card. He'd worry about the consequences later.

"This is too much," she told him. "I think that necklace was very expensive. You shouldn't have."

"It's beautiful on you," he had fastened it around her neck and stood back. "You are . . . you are so beautiful," he said catching his breath when she turned her blue eyes on him.

"You are very handsome," she told him.

"No, I have no illusions. My ex-wife told me I had pretty eyes and other women have complimented me on my hands, but I'm not handsome. "

"You were married before? Of course, that's where your son came from," she said as they walked on through some other exhibits

"I was very young and we were very in love but . . . it didn't last. My career took a downturn and the marriage went south. I . . . came home unexpectedly one afternoon and . . . uh. . . well, let's just say I had grounds for divorce."

"I'm sorry," Belle turned to him.

"Oh, don't be. She's remarried and, from what I've heard, is happy as she can be."

"And you? You didn't find anyone else?"

"No, I threw myself into my . . . uh . . . writing and that started going well, actually very well."

She gazed at him, admiration shining in her eyes, disconcerting him. "Nice," she finally said.

It was after five when they left the Craft Show.

"Supper?" he asked her.

"Oh, that would be lovely," she told him. "You'll have to suggest. I don't know what's available."

"Well, we have the Local Taco, the Laughing Seed, which is vegetarian, Chai Pani, which is Indian street food, Le Bouchon, which is French. Oh, I know. Let's go to Tupelo Honey. It's southern cuisine," he decided and they walked down Heywood to Patton to the restaurant. Belle again took his arm and leaned against him.

It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, particularly a stunning woman, hold his hand and lean against him. It was decidedly pleasant and he was enjoying himself, not to mention basking in the approving looks he would get from other men along the way. He was still taking the odd picture now and again and recording conversations, but he was beginning to feel self-conscious about his actions. There was a part of him that felt . . . dirty . . . as if he was doing something that he shouldn't be doing, something underhanded, something sneaky. He sighed.

He knew he only felt that way because it was true.

They shared some shrimp and grits for supper. He couldn't help but notice her perfect manners, how she would tilt her head to listen to him when he talked, how she seemed to notice everything going on around them and took delight in whatever she was doing.

She was the most engaging woman he'd ever been with.

And the most beautiful.

And the nicest.

"This is very good food. I've never had, what did you call these? . . . the fried green tomatoes, before," Belle told him, her expressive face mirroring her inner delight at the savory vegetable.

"What kind of food do you eat?" he asked.

"Oh, I have to attend a lot of sta. . . .a. . . a lot of dinners where there is filet mignon and such, but when I'm at home I much prefer plain, simple food."

"You cook a lot?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, I wish. The only thing I really know how to make are peach tarts. It was something my mother taught me before she died."

"Your mother died?" He had a vague memory of reading this somewhere.

"When I was twelve. A horrible car accident."

"I'm so sorry for your loss – losing a parent . . . a loving parent," he didn't finish the thought. It took him a moment before he could continue, "But she taught you how to make peach tarts?"

Belle managed a smiled. "She did . . . and to love books and reading and learning." She sighed, "I miss her every day. There was so much more she could have taught me. And not just about cooking."

"I'm sure. Well, maybe some day, you'll have the opportunity to learn to cook other things – uh . . . that is . . . if that's what you want to do."

"Yes, maybe, that would be nice," she told him. And she gave him the gentlest of smiles, a smile then went right to his core and burned.

How many times did he have to remind himself? She's a royal princess, you dolt! Half your age. Pure and innocent. What? You think she's gonna throw over her throne for the likes of you. At best, you're a little fling that she'll indulge in while she's away from the limelight. She's bound to marry some rich, cultured ponce who plays polo and badminton and drinks limoncello. You're a divorced, recovering drug addict who thrives on danger and confrontation – hardly prince material.

But he was falling for her. Even though it had just been one day, he was falling for her. He couldn't help himself.

Belle couldn't help but notice that Gold had become introspective and quiet during the meal. She took the opportunity to study the man in the half-light of the restaurant. He had an interesting, expressive face with beautiful whiskey-brown eyes. His nose, well, it might have been broken at one time or another. He had a mouth that was slightly crooked and little lines around the corners of his eyes. She thought him handsome, but not in a pretty-boy manner. He had character and personality in his face.

Get a hold of yourself, girl. He's a regular guy and if he found out you were a royal princess, he would probably run for the hills. He's worldly and knowledgeable and you're barely out of the school room. He probably thinks you're some spoilt, sheltered rich girl. He's probably used to women who are CEO's and clever and sophisticated and . . . experienced.

She was falling for him. After a single day, she was falling for him. She couldn't help herself.

She didn't stop herself when she felt the urge to reach across the table and hold his hand. He didn't pull back, just glancing down and letting the moment happen.

As they sat in the restaurant they couldn't help but notice several large screen televisions set about. Several were set on a news channel.

"Tonight, there is still no further word from the bedside of Princess Isabella in Asheville, North Carolina. She was taken ill yesterday two weeks into her whirlwind tour of the United States. There are now rumors circulating that her illness may be serious, which is causing alarm and anxiety among the people of her country. His Royal Highness, King Maurice, is not well enough to make the journey to the United States but he is getting regular updates regarding his daughter's condition."

Gold didn't remember tasting a bite of his food, he was so caught up in the woman across the table from him. He'd heard the news report in the background and he couldn't help but notice she had become subdued, almost sad. When it came time to pay the check, he picked it up and held out his hand to her to rise. They walked together up to the Battery to get ready for the Ghost Walk. Belle now seemed hesitant.

"Perhaps I should be going back," she said.

"If that's what you want," he told her, suspecting that she was feeling guilty about her actions, particularly as they were affecting her father.

"But I want to spend time with you, too," she told him. He couldn't quite tell but in the minimal light, it looked like her eyes were glistening.

Neal and Emma joined them, interrupting the moment.

"I've lived in Asheville all my life, but I've never done anything like this," Emma told them. They had met in a creepy alley and began the walking tour with their knowledgeable guide, listening to town history and, some lurid history. They kept their cameras ready for anything.

Belle had slipped her arm around Gold's, her body pressed against his as they stood and as they walked. He couldn't help but notice how well, how perfectly she fit against him. He laid his hand over hers and gave the guide minimal attention, focusing instead on Belle, how the warmth of her body seeped into his, the smell of her hair pleasantly assailing his nostrils, the smoothness of her skin delighting his fingertips.

Belle knew she should be listening to the mysterious history and all the reports of weird happenings and strange sounds, but now she was vacillating between concern for her father and concentrating on Gold, how he felt strong and comforting and how protected and safe she felt with him.

Emma watched the twosome. They seemed very comfortable with each other – it was easy to see them as a couple. The Princess would often lean up against the man who would wrap his arms protectively around her. At times, Emma would notice that Gold would press his lips against her ear in an almost-kiss and the young woman would smile up at him delightedly.

Emma really wasn't sure exactly what was going on. They seemed genuinely attracted to each other, perhaps even infatuated, but . . . there was something off – they both seemed sad. Perhaps they knew this was something that couldn't last.

Nothing of note happened to them on the tour. It was a pleasant, albeit spooky, walk in the city after dark.

It was after eleven when they were finished and the couples separated.

"That was strange," Neal told Emma.

"The tour?"

"No, I'm talking about my dad and his gorgeous young girlfriend."

"You liked her, didn't you?"

"What's not to like," Neal replied. "I can see what he sees in her, but . . . "

"What does she see in him?" Emma asked and when Neal nodded, she laughed. "Oh Neal, your dad is a pretty hot guy. I know you don't think of him that way, but I'm here to tell you. He's interesting and, well, he totally has the bad boy image going for him."

"Sounds like you should be dating him," Neal said, perhaps a bit sourly.

"No way. I'm going with the latest model of the Stiltskin men," Emma assured him.

Belle and Gold began to walk back to the Rankin Street Garage.

It was time, they both knew - it was time for them to part.

Belle had dropped her head. "I really had a wonderful time," she said as they walked along.

"Me too," he told her honestly.

"I'm so glad I met you. I've never met anyone like you," she told him.

"I feel the same way about you," he answered.

"I do have to go back," she said slowly.

"I understand," he answered.

"I don't want to. I want to stay with you," she said honestly. "I have all these feelings and I want to find out if they are real and lasting and if they will grow and . . . I don't want to leave you."

"I don't want you to go, either. I have feelings and, I can tell you, it's not something that I've ever felt before, not so quickly, not so deeply. I would like you to stay, but I know you have to go. Maybe . . . . maybe, we'll see each other around," he added lamely.

Oh hell, he doubted they would ever see each other again – certainly, they would never be alone together again.