What had he been thinking? He wished he could even figure that one out, but when he saw Belle working at Granny's Diner, something inside him had shifted. He had been annoyed, but also worried about her, and that bothered him far more than he wanted to admit.

He couldn't get her out of his mind.

She was, perhaps, one of the first people that hadn't shied away from him, who challenged him and called him out when he was acting like a bit of a jackass. Ok, maybe more than just a bit. He liked it. He didn't expect that, really. He had been the king of his little castle for longer than he could remember.

When his wife had left him, he had been just a shell of a man. All he could remember was pain, desperation, holing himself up on his farm for months and barely going out unless he absolutely needed to. And that was fairly seldom. A trip to the grocery store every couple weeks, trips to the supply store for things for his sheep and dogs. And the rest of the time alone with far too much time to think.

And now he had someone coming to live with him.

Invading his space.

Sometimes his mouth ran ahead of his brain. Not often, really, but when it came to Belle French it seemed to happen more and more frequently.

When the knock came early that morning, tentative and quiet, he heaved a sigh and made his halting way to the door. It was easier moving with the cane and the walking boot he still had to wear, but it wasn't easy. He wasn't sure it ever would be. The doctor had checked his progress and had seemed happy with it, but he had been told multiple times that he would probably never gain full mobility and would probably need a cane for the rest of his life. At 52. He wasn't old, but he felt old as he hobbled toward the door.

"Miss French," he said by way of greeting.

"Why do you sound surprised to see me?" She raised one eyebrow and he found himself smirking at her.

"The fair maiden approaches the dragon's lair on her own? That never seems to happen in the stories."

"You haven't been reading the right stories," she said with a grin and was she actually flirting with him? Women didn't flirt with him. It simply wasn't done.

"Yes well, that may be so. But I was sure your friend Ruby would have talked you out of this."

"She tried," Belle said and bit her lip and he felt that one go straight to….well…places he'd rather not think about at that moment, thank you very much.

"But you decide your fate."

"Exactly." She leaned to the side and looked past him a bit. "So are you going to let me in?"

"Right, of course. Come in." He waved her through ahead of him and turned to shut the door. She stepped into the living room and set her one suitcase and purse down on the ground there. "Do you need help bringing in the rest?"

"The rest?" She met his eyes, brow slightly furrowed.

"Of your things." He waved a hand toward the door.

She looked down at what she had with her and then gave him a sheepish look. "This is all I have. I couldn't bring much of anything with me when we came here."

"I'm sorry." He didn't even know why he was apologizing. He shouldn't. It wasn't his fault.

She shook her head. "Nothing to be sorry about. Onwards and upwards, I always say. I can always get more stuff."

"You are amazing." The words slipped out before he could stop them and he wished he could take them back. But the little smile that crossed her face at the words at least made him pause, appreciate the moment. "I…um…would you like to see your room?"

She nodded and he escorted her up the stairs. He had chosen a room for her about as far from his as he could get. It was small, but not overly crowded, with a bed easily big enough for two of her. It was a comfortable room, he thought, the walls a soothing blue that almost matched her eyes, the curtains a darker blue. It wasn't intentional, really, but it somehow seemed to fit her perfectly.

When she stepped in and looked around her eyes quickly met and held his. "My room?"

"Did you expect a dungeon?"

She laughed. "I was hoping not. But this is truly lovely." She stepped over, brushed her hand across the dresser.

"I told you the place needed a bit of dusting."

"I see that."

"You can start in here?"

"I can."

He let her set her stuff down before showing her around the rest of the house. He liked watching her as she wandered the rooms. She lightly touched things, spent time studying the artwork on the walls and shared some rather insightful comments.

But she was most enthralled by the old fashioned spinning wheels in his workroom. "Do you use these?"

He watched her for a moment before responding. "I do. All my work uses handspun wool."

"From your sheep," she surmised.

"All of the work, from shearing and carding to spinning and weaving is done right here on the farm." He was proud of that. He knew many had sold out, had the wool carded and spun at factories, before weaving into their rugs. But he still worked the old-fashioned way. He liked working with his hands, liked the meticulousness of carding the wool, like the feeling of working the wheel as he spun it into thread.

"That's impressive." She turned to look at him. "No seriously. I've never known anyone who could do something like that."

"I grew up on a farm," he said softly. "My aunts raised me into this life."

"They spun?"

He pointed at the other smaller spinning wheels in the room. "Those were theirs. Passed down generation to generation in the family."

"They must be…"

"Hundreds of years old, yes."

"And you still have them?"

He didn't use them, not anymore. The wheel he used was larger, more modern, though still at least a hundred years old. He had refurbished it after finding it at an antique store some years ago and he was quite proud of it. It felt good beneath his hands, the wood smooth, the action flawless. He could lose himself in the rhythm and forget everything else.

And forgetting was sometimes important.

"Yes, of course. Spinning is somewhat of an art to my family." He didn't dare tell her that his father had thought it too feminine for his boy, had returned once…just once…to find him showing off at the wheel and had turned away. His father was everything he was not. "Come," he finally said, directing Belle away from the room.

It was private. He didn't even know why he showed it to her except that he was proud of his work and wanted her to see some of where it was done.

As they exited, Belle put a hand on his arm. "I'd like to watch sometime…if you'd let me." Her voice was soft and he honestly did believe she would enjoy it.

"I might just let you," he said at least and drew her from the room, shutting the door behind them as he led her through the rest of the house on their rather impromptu tour.

Belle had spent a little while after the tour of the place she was now to call home arranging things in the room he had given her. Truly she didn't know what to expect when he offered his home as a place for her to live in the meantime. Some utilitarian room. Not this lovely quaint room that seemed to really call out to her. She could be comfortable here and though it felt awkward to sleep down the hall from Gold, she thought she might get used to it.

Perhaps a little too quickly, even.

He had been a gentleman, showing her around his house, though it had clearly pained him to do so. There were some rooms locked to her, his room and two others on the second floor, an attic that he told her she had no need to go into as there wasn't much up there. The kitchen was lovely, large and bright and seriously understocked. She swore she would remedy that soon and made a note to talk to Gold about that later that night.

Her room was now arranged to the best of her ability. She had found a duster and some cloths in the hall closet and had tackled the chore with great gusto. She swept the floor with a broom she found in the kitchen. She considered vacuuming the very lovely area rug but couldn't find a vacuum and then began to wonder if there was some sort of special care, if Gold himself had made it. It made the most sense, really, and when she got down on her hands and knees to inspect it found that there was an attention to detail there that left her in awe.

She had no doubt he had made it. She couldn't imagine another rug-maker weaving in such fine threads, especially not the golden ones. A trademark of his, perhaps. She had gone on to look at the other rugs in the house and noticed the same gold threads woven into the patterns. Sometimes the gold was obvious, sometimes it was so subtle she had to really get down and look closely.

He found her like that, hovering over one of the living room rugs. "Well, this isn't a side of you I expected to see," came the acerbic voice from behind her.

She leapt up and smoothed down her skirt. "I hope you didn't see too much."

He just smiled at her, mysterious, and turned away. "And how do you find the accommodations?"

"The bedroom is lovely. But the kitchen could use a little work…" She trailed off. Honesty is the best policy, right?

"It's state of the art," he shot back.

"Oh there's nothing wrong with the appliances. It's just…you have almost nothing in your cupboards." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Just how do you live?"

He shrugged. "I'm a bachelor, Miss French. What I eat doesn't matter."

"That would explain why you're so thin." He just gave her a scathing look at that. "Well, at any rate, it matters to me."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. "That may be…"

"And if you expect me to cook for you, you're going to need me to buy supplies."

"I never said you had to cook." He sounded sullen and she almost laughed.

"No, I suppose you didn't. Then I guess I'll get supplies and cook myself. You can live off of…well, whatever it is you want to eat." She turned away, waited.

"Well, if you're going to be that way." With a smile, she turned back and he tossed her a credit card out of his wallet. She wished she could say that she caught it, looking all suave and smug. But the truth was Belle was not the most graceful person and there were reasons she was never in sports.

She scooped it off the floor where it had fallen and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.

"You're going to be the death of me, aren't you Miss French?" And she noted there was amusement there, not annoyance.

"I'm afraid so."

Her trip to the grocery store had been entirely successful. Gold had told her to spend whatever she damned well pleased and she loved having the freedom to stock up a kitchen as she saw fit. And she had a lot to buy, from spices to stock to meats and vegetables and pasta. He had a little bit of the latter and she guessed he probably lived on basic spaghetti and similar dishes. But the rest was sorely lacking.

The man was ridiculous if he thought she'd live on such basic food. And she suspected, somewhere deep inside, he didn't want to either. She wondered if he had ever been married. He talked of being a bachelor and she had yet to hear any gossip outside of what a bastard he was. And people were truly willing to discuss that. Especially when they realized she was purchasing food using his account.

Oh, the looks she had gotten on that one. And the one person who had implied she must be his whore if she was using his credit card really irked her.

But mostly she was just happy to have a lovely kitchen to cook in and a place to call home, even if it was only for a short while, and even if it came with its very own cantankerous dragon.

She was unpacking all the food she bought when Gold made his way to the kitchen. The thump of his cane and his uneven gait was already becoming familiar to her and so she turned before he even made it to the kitchen and smiled.

"You bought all of this?" He sounded incredulous.

"You literally had nothing."

"Do you know what the word literally means?" Now his voice sounded annoyed.

"Ok so you didn't literally have nothing, but you had almost nothing. A few jars of sauce and some pasta hardly counts as food."

He looked rather sheepish for a moment. "And I suppose you're some sort of gourmet cook," he grumbled at her.

"Hardly," she answered in nearly the same tone. "But I can do a pretty mean macaroni and cheese." The last was said with a smile and she felt especially pleased when she saw his eyebrows raise and a somewhat satisfied look come across his face.

"Well, I'll just leave you to it." And then he disappeared.

"I'll take that to mean 'Yes I'd like some Miss French.'" There was answering snort from the other room as he moved away from her.

Dinner preparations had gone well. Belle really did know what she was doing in the kitchen. She was no gourmet, but she knew her way around skillets and deep fryers and all the other paraphernalia. Her father was an abysmal cook, likely along the lines of Gold. Maybe worse. He was content to open a can of Chef Boyardee and dump it into a microwavable bowl. At least in the hospital he could get nutritious, if not appetizing food. It was bland and entirely uninteresting, but it gave him what he needed and she supposed that was enough, though he didn't seem to think so. She couldn't keep track of the amount of times her father had begged her for a cheeseburger or fried fish.

Her macaroni and cheese was an old family recipe, stuffed full of béchamel and extra sharp cheddar cheeses. It gave it a little extra bite, as did the addition of plenty of pepper. The topping was made with bread crumbs and slathered with butter to make it crispy. It was bubbling by the time Gold came down and seated himself at his dining room table.

The room was formal, the table far too large for the single occupant and somehow seeing him sitting there, imagining him there night after night alone made her sad. He was a difficult man, but that didn't make it any less sad. She wondered sometimes if he ever had the Nolans up to dinner. But considering the state of his kitchen? Well, probably not. And considering the state of his temperament, she couldn't quite imagine his going to them either.

What a sad life. Lonely, isolated. He seemed content to be hated but she wondered if that was how he felt deep down. Perhaps these were more layers she would have to peel away.

Shaking her head, she pulled the dish out of the oven, leaned over to sniff it. Yes, that was the smell she remembered. Perfection. If he didn't like this, he wouldn't like anything she could offer.

She spooned some onto a plate to let it cool a little and set to cutting up the crusty bread she had purchased to go with it. As she brought things out to the table, Gold simply eyed her, hands crossed sedately in his lap. But his eyes were sharp, watching every move she made.

"Chardonnay?" he said to the glass she brought out to him.

"Of course. It seemed to be a good wine to pair with the dish."

He shook his head. "Sometimes I don't quite know what to think of you."

"Good," she responded with and then practically danced out of the room. Coming from Gold, she suspected that was quite the compliment.

When she came back out with the dish of macaroni and cheese and the bread, he raised one eyebrow at her. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"What?" She looked down at the dish. There was nothing untoward about it. It looked quite appetizing and in fact, she planned to partake of it herself once he was served.

"One dish?" He waved a hand at the meal in front of him.

Oh God, he's one of those sorts. She had had an uncle like that. Nothing on the plate must be touching. Everything in its own corner or on its own plate. "I can get you another plate for the bread."

"That's not what I meant," he said drily. At her obviously confused look he continued. "You're not joining me?"

"Oh," she said and thought she must sound awfully stupid. "I didn't think you'd want me to."

"Well, you're living here now. I might as well get used to having you around." His voice was still dry and she wasn't sure if there was sarcasm there or some sort of version of honesty.

"Mr. Gold," she said with a bit of a laugh. "That's not exactly the best invitation to a date, now is it?"

"Is this a date?"

His voice had turned serious. The conversation had turned serious and Belle wasn't sure how to respond. "I…um…"

"I jest, Miss French," he finally said, relieving some of the tension, though the butterflies were still taking to flight. "Please do join me if you wish. You are under no obligation."

She took a deep breath. "I'd like that."

Dinner after that went far easier than she expected. He complimented her on the meal and she expressed her worry that she didn't offer up a dessert to go with it. He waved that off and took a second helping of macaroni and cheese. If he started to eat like this every night, he'd probably put on a few pounds. He needed to, really. She had never taken notice of how sharp his cheekbones were and without the extra padding of the heavy sweaters he favored, he looked all sharp edges. A little comfort food might do him some good.

She'd make dessert next time.

The conversation flowed easier than she expected too. He wasn't forthcoming about his life before or outside of the farm, but she hadn't really expected him to be. Instead, he spoke at length about his dogs, about past dogs, about the champions and the ones who had needed a lot of work.

She found out that at one point he had been competitive in sheepherding trials. She had never even heard of such things, but apparently shepherds had been competing against each other to see who had the best dog since the middle of the 19th century. Gold had gone into a long history of sheepherding trials that left her eyes crossing a little bit. Halfway through it he suddenly stopped.

"I'm boring you." It was a statement, not a question.

"No," she said quickly. "I'm just tired." She stood. "And I really should clean up."

He stood with her, leaning heavily on his cane. "You cooked." He waved her toward the living room. "I should clean up." She eyed his cane and it seemed he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I'm not an invalid."

"I never said you were," she answered with a sigh. "How about I wash, you dry?"

He nodded and together they attacked the dishes. They made quite a pair really, and Belle was appreciative of how comfortable they were in that moment. He seemed to have relaxed, perhaps the wine and good food making him truly relaxed for the first time. She hummed as she washed and he just glanced at her once in awhile, an indulgent smirk on his face.

When the dishes were put away and everything set to rights, Belle returned to find him still standing at the sink staring at the water as it disappeared down the drain. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah." He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

"I…" she started to say. "Um…I should go get ready for bed." It was early yet, but living on a sheep farm meant early mornings.

"We should do this again," he whispered.

"We should," she responded with. And she was surprised by how much she meant it. She had actually enjoyed his company that night. He had still been his usual acerbic, sarcastic self, but with a softer edge. One she knew she could get used to.

Without putting any thought into it, because thinking would stop her from doing it, she placed her hand on his shoulder and leaned closer to him. She hesitated for a moment before closing the distance and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Mr. Gold."

And then she disappeared up the stairs, not even turning around to look at him. She didn't want to see his reaction, not this time at least.