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“Charlotte. Stop sign.”
I jam on the brakes. “I saw it.”
He chuckles again. “You’re in your own little world.”
Which Ham has no idea that he’s an essential part of.
I slow to a more responsible speed as I drive him home, the silence between us once again changing from good-natured to awkward. Ham is quiet as a rule, but lately something hangs between us when we’re alone like this, something that could be said, but isn’t. Something that needs to be said, but can’t.
We’re friends; Ham is probably my best friend as well as my handler. We’re just friends.
Just…friends.
We both work for the NIIA—National Intelligence and Information Agency, the covert Canadian spy organization that most of the world (including my fellow Canadians) has no idea exists—and that alone should keep us in the friendzone. Ham started a few months before I did, but we came up through the ranks together. He was brought in by his uncle, and I was recruited by my grandfather; the two of them created the NIIA, and they still run it, so the family connection makes it weird as well.
We’re polar opposites: Ham is solid with his determination and ambitions, stoic in never letting emotion cloud those dark blue eyes, and yet, extremely sexy.
I am none of those things. I fight my way out of a problem and have the scars on my knuckles to prove it. I can be calm, but I don’t like to be, and at five-foot nothing I’m built like a fourteen-year-old boy, so no one would call me sexy.
But the biggest reason I have to keep my mouth shut about all this going through my head is that Ham is my boss. Sort of. He’s my handler, which gives him a little seniority. And eventually, he’ll run the entire NIIA.
And I’ll still be an agent.
I should not be holding hands with my boss while watching the latest Fast and Furious movie. I shouldn’t even be going to the movies with him, but we’re friends. We’ve been friends for years now, and I’d like to keep it like that. My hand is still warm from him holding it and I’m not going to say a word about it if he doesn’t.
“Red light, Charlotte!”
Maybe I should start to ramble on about something because these silences are distracting me. In my line of work, I can’t afford distractions.
I might end up dead.
“I got it, Hamilton.” There was no fear of me running the red light, but Ham is always so careful, another thing that sets us apart. “How did you get the name Hamilton anyway?” I ask as we idle at the light. “I should know this.”
“Why would you say that? I have no idea how you got your name.”
“But I have a normal name.” Charlie. Lottie, as my brothers call me.
Charlotte Dodd. Ham is the only one, other than my grandparents, who calls me Charlotte.
“Well, my—also normal—name derived from my father, and from my grandfather. Hamilton Short III, in case you forgot.”
I did, actually. Ham never mentions his father. He’s dead like mine. “Who came up with Hamilton Number One? I know,” I add as he gives me a look. “Your great-grandmother. Obviously. But it’s kind of a unique name. Did you ever ask?”
“As opposed to Charlotte, which has been consistently in the top ten baby names for the last decade.”
“You look at baby names?”
“My great-grandmother was American.” As usual, Ham ignores my more exasperating questions. “And very proud of the founding fathers, and managed to overlook the atrocities they committed—”
“—slaves and corruption, that sort of thing,” I finish.
“She loved American history, so she named her sons Jefferson, Washington, Franklin, and Hamilton.”
“Is there a Franklin the third out there? Hey, you’re not related to Franklin Roosevelt somehow, are you?”
“No. There are many other Franklins in this world not related to me.”
“You sure about that? There aren’t many Hams.” The light turns green, and I’m first out of the gate through the intersection, and make a right at the next street fast enough for Ham to grab the door handle.
