The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel Read Online Free

the discreet elevator that had been installed during the renovation, but with the power out she had to take two flights of stairs in order to deliver supper to the door of the Dombey, knocking lightly.
    Jackson pulled the door open to see Chas holding a tray against her shoulder with one hand, and a lamp in the other. “Your supper,” she said, and he hurried to take the tray to relieve her of her burden.
    “Thank you,” he said, setting it on the little desk. “You’re very thoughtful.”
    “It’s not much, but . . .”
    “It’s great. It looks great. Thank you. Um . . . do you have any liquor available?”
    She didn’t look surprised by the question, which meant it was likely a common one, but he was surprised by her answer. “Only my grandmother’s brandy, and she’ll fight you for it. Sorry. You’re on your own.” More facetiously she added, “Besides, I don’t allow drunken behavior at my inn.”
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a quiet drunk.”
    He felt her attempting to measure the degree of his seriousness versus humor. It was a character trait he prided himself on. The fact that people who didn’t know him well didn’t know whether or not he was joking held a certain fascination for him. He liked to see their reactions, and he’d found that he could learn a great deal about a person by how they responded to his humorless humor. Some people ignored him. They usually had no backbone. Some people argued with him. They were usually insecure. Some people sought to clarify. They were the ones he respected. And when they did it with eye contact, he respected them more.
    “Good night, Mr. Leeds,” she said. No backbone? That didn’t seem to fit.
    “Call me Jackson, Chas.”
    “Not Jack?” she asked, and he wasn’t sure whether or not she was teasing him. Was she beating him at his own game? Did she know it was a game for him to figure people out and keep them from figuring him out?
    “Not Jack,” he said. “I’m not a pirate; just FBI.”
    She let out a one-syllable laugh. “You’re joking, right?” She was trying to clarify. He liked her more with that one question.
    “About what? Being a drunk, or being—”
    “FBI.”
    “I thought you would have figured that out with my background check.”
    Chas remembered then his jokes about fingerprints and DNA. Was that it? He thought like an FBI agent because that’s what he was? She was quick to retort with an even voice, “The database was offline due to the power outage.”
    Jackson let out the same kind of laugh he’d just heard from her. She was good. Any doubts he had about her having backbone disintegrated when she said, “Prove it.”
    Jackson snapped his wallet out and opened it as he’d done thousands of times to show the badge and ID in order to be allowed to enter places most people couldn’t go. She didn’t just glance at it, she took the wallet from him and held the ID close to the lamp she was holding. “Jackson T. Leeds. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Very impressive . . . Jackson.” She handed it back to him. “What’s the T for?”
    “Tobias,” he said.
    “Serious?”
    “Serious.”
    “Almost as bad as Florence.”
    “No, much worse than Florence.”
    They watched each other for a long moment while Jackson attempted to figure out if he was attracted to her, or just to her kindness.
    “FBI, huh,” she said, looking away. “A lonely job, apparently.”
    “How do you figure?” he asked, and she looked at him again, making eye contact in a way that was almost unnerving. And it took a lot to unnerve him.
    “For a man who came here for peace and quiet, you certainly seem to enjoy having company and conversation.” Jackson straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, the same way he might if he were wondering whether or not to draw his weapon. Without flinching, she added, “I can tell when people want to be left alone, and when they want to talk.” It felt like some kind of accusation until she