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“Two of my great-uncles were killed in World War Two. The other was lost at sea in a boating accident.” Ham tells me this without a trace of emotion. It’s no wonder I’m confused about the hand holding. The man is a closed book, shut tight and with one of those leather straps tied around it.
“That’s sad,” I say, slowing as we approach his building. “How did I not know this about you?”
“I’m an open book. All you have to do is ask.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “You’re really not.”
But is that on me for not asking?
I pull into the curved drive in front of his building. Yet another thing we don’t have in common—Ham lives in a kick-butt condo building in the middle of downtown Toronto, while I divide my time between my grandparents’ farm outside the city, crashing on my brother Perry’s couch, or in my cell-like apartment inside NIIA headquarters.
“Tell me something else about you that I don’t know,” I insist.
I consider Ham my best friend, so I see the shadow that crosses his face. Plus, he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak.
And then he shuts it. “What exactly do you want to know?” he asks instead.
Do you like me more than a friend?
That’s what I want to ask him, even though it sounds as childish as if I were back passing notes in grade school. How do you feel about me? Can you see this becoming anything more than just friends? What does it mean that you held my hand through the entire movie, even after it got sweaty?
That’s what I want to ask, but none of the interrogation training I’ve had helps with asking the questions I’m not sure I want the answer for.
Because, yes, I’d like to know if this thing between us is only in my mind, or if it’s the real deal. But what good will that do me? Because it doesn’t change the fact that handlers and agents are expressly forbidden into entering into a romantic relationship.
I’ve even been reprimanded for my friendship with Ham. So, yes, I’d like to know, but what am I going to do about it?
“What suit are you going to wear tomorrow?” I ask him instead of the questions dancing on the tip of my tongue. “Because I know you’ve got them all planned out for the next week.”
There’s a little sadness in his blue eyes when he smiles at me. “Good night, Charlotte.”
“Nite, Ham.”
Why does he make it so difficult not to fall in love with him?
Chapter Two
“I heard you had a date last night with the big guy.” Alessia slides into the seat beside me and jerks her chin to the head of the room where Ham is getting ready to start the briefing for the next mission.
My question from last night has been answered—he’s wearing his charcoal suit. Ham looks good in a suit, maybe more than he should. This one is fitted through the waist, which makes his shoulders stand out, and the pants make his butt look amazing. I call his shirt lavender, but to him it’s light purple. He’s not big on “fun” colours, which is why I bought him the purple tie covered in @ symbols for the Secret Santa gift exchange last year.
He’s wearing it today. And he knew it was me who got it for him without me even saying a word.
And they say I’m a great secret agent.
“Charlie.” Alessia waves a hand in front of my face. “Anybody in there?”
I drag my gaze away from Ham to Alessia’s smug expression. “What?”
“You. The Big Boss.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Charlie. Come on. We work for an intelligence and information agency. Everybody knows you went on a date.” She wiggles her eyebrows, which could mean either she’s excited for me or about to stab me in the side with a pencil.
Alessia and I should be friends—we’re around the same age, both agents, both good at what we do—but we’re not. Maybe in another lifetime we will attempt a friendship, but not now. I trust her with my life when we’re on a mission, but only because I have to. When our lives aren’t threatened, I don’t trust her not to throw me under a bus.
Which would threaten my life, come to think of it.
