Enemy's Secret - Ashlee Price Page 0,67

hold onto it how I should.

"I love you too," I breathe, and his eyes come alive.

"You mean it?"

I just laugh, and that's answer enough for him.

His lips sweep to mine, my jawline. "Kyra."

"Landon," I murmur back.

He wraps his arms around me, beaming like a kid on Halloween. "That's it, then."

With him smiling like that, how can I not smile too? "What's it?"

That grin. "We are."

"We'll see about that," I say, although my smile is a dead giveaway.

Not that I'm so sure. There's still...

Shit.

How can I still keep that from Landon now?

I need to tell him, and soon. Should have already told him, really. But right now, I have way too much on my plate as it is, with my work and the whole Pamela situation.

If Landon were to react badly to it...

No.

I'll tell him soon. Soon, but not yet.

"What's up?" he asks now.

"I... still have to talk to Pamela," I confess.

"Oh. Now?"

"I want to get it over with," I say.

Which is true, but what's truer is that what just happened between us terrifies me and I want to be alone. And call Pamela at some point. Having my head screwed on properly would be nice too.

"Makes sense." He nods, putting on his clothes, all casual. As if what just happened didn't. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Did what just happened not happen? Did he really say it?

He's walking away when I stop him. "Landon - wait."

He pauses, with a look like he could still smile. "Yeah?"

"Say it again."

His brow creases with incomprehension.

"The L word," I say, feeling my cheeks heating up.

God, I feel like a teenage girl, doing 'Does He Like Me' quizzes in J14.

He squints, with the beginnings of a smirk, but now I know it's all for show. "Not sure I know that one."

"Say it!" I demand.

A full smirk. "Say what?"

"Landon!"

He chuckles. "Fine." Heads off. He's almost out of sight when, with a wave, he calls over his shoulder, "Love you!"

It travels all through me, his 'love you'. Warms me. Keeps me smiling all the way back to the couch.

There, I laze amidst the lint (mental note: finally get around to cleaning this thing), even wash the single dish I've used since I got back. Then, I change a handful of times before I find a pair of black velvet sweats that are grungy but not too grungy. I'm not about to dress up for a best friend who stabbed me in the back.

Until, finally, I can't put it off anymore. I text her.

Can you come over?

- Sure. Now? she replies immediately.

Now, I reply, going back to sink on the couch and scowl at nothing in particular except what's about to happen.

There. It's done.

Ding-dang-dong-ding, the doorbell goes, far too soon.

I sit there until it's donged itself out. Until I can think of absolutely nothing else keeping me on this sink-seated couch other than fear.

Even if it does make sense. Pompom's my best friend. What if this ends it all?

I rise, steeling myself.

Whatever happens today, whatever I find out, I have to know the truth.

"Hey," she says, standing there, her pink glossed mouth moving with what could be an attempt at a smile.

I glare at her flatly, my eyes doing an impressed once-over of her.

Who dares to get all spruced up - pink gloss, winged liner - when they're coming to their best friend to beg forgiveness? If she is even here for that.

"Hey," I say, stepping aside so she can come in.

"It's OK," she says, not moving. She's wearing her polka-dot wash blue jeans and tight tie-dye crop top. Definitely not 'I'm sorry' wear. "If you don't want..." She trails off, then bursts out, "I'm so sorry, Ky."

I stare at her for a long minute, then, finally, ask, "Why?"

Why she basically stabbed a knife into my back, not why she's sorry. We both know why she's sorry. What she did.

As for me, looking at her, even with the new sheen of tears in her green eyes, I feel zero sympathy. Her sleek straightened red hair and well-rested look isn't helping. Not that I expected her to show up looking like a domestic abuse insomniac, but still. "I just don't understand it."

I open the door further and gesture her inside. We go to the kitchen together.

"I wanted to tell you," Pamela admits, twining a strand of hair round her finger, round and round and round as she stands in the middle of the room looking lost, "but my job was on the line..." Sad chuckle. "Now I lost it