Page 50 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

“Georgia...please.”

She returned his gaze, searching his expression, and finding a whole lot of anger, desperation, and exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She had to make him understand, she wouldn’t be able to rest until he did. “I...I really liked kissing you. I would have preferred to, you know, keep on with the kissing.”

For a second, he didn’t even breathe then he shook his head slowly. “You have got to stop saying stuff like that.”

“Why? It’s been a really shitty night. We could get shot at any moment. Finding a little pleasure in this otherwise hellhole doesn’t seem so bad.”

He was quiet for a long time. One minute, then two.

“It’s not bad at all, but if we want to stay alive, we should both get some sleep.”

“Peter—”

“Georgia...sleep. We’re going to need it.” He shifted slightly, leaning his head against the dirt wall and closing his eyes. His arms cradled her close, encouraging her head to rest on his shoulder.

“Oh, all right, but I’m not finished talking to you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just some pre-sleep complaining.”

“Are you always this grumpy?”

“For God’s sake!” He glared down at her. “Go to sleep.”

“You don’t have to yell.”

“Christ, I had no idea you were this stubborn.”

The words would have stung if one of his hands hadn’t been rubbing small circles on her back.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Like what?”

“Like, did you know I can drive a forklift?”

“A forklift?”

Georgia could hear the surprise in his voice.

“My dad was a farmer and loved to run heavy equipment. He taught me how to operate all kinds of machinery.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of farm does he have?”

“He had a little bit of everything. Cows, pigs, grain. He died ten years ago in an accident.” There she’d said it. The most traumatic event in her life until now, and she’d said it without hesitation. “A tractor rolled on him. I’d gone into the house and somehow got locked in the entryway closet. I couldn’t get out, and by the time my mother got home from shopping, it was too late.” She paused. “She followed him within a year.”

The hand paused momentarily before it resumed tracing its light circles. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

He was silent for a moment before asking, “Have you always been claustrophobic?”

“No. Not until the accident.” She snuggled closer, seeking comfort on a physical and emotional level. “I can stand on my hands,” she said not wanting to go to sleep thinking about her parents or her phobia.

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