In his presence, his good-looking cousins, Brendan, and all the other men in the bar become invisible to me. Only Dale exists—Dale with his leonine mane of blond hair, his eyes like emeralds that sparkle and sing joyous holiday music.

And Dale with his husky deep voice that coats me in the red-black warmth of a fully ripened Syrah.

But I’ve succeeded only in pissing Dale off.

I don’t seem to have any middle ground with him.

Either he’s angry and wants nothing to do with me, or he’s all over me, telling me he wants me more than anything.

And the reality is that it doesn’t matter to me.

Whether he’s angry or horny, I want to be near him. My heart cries out for him. I’m so hopelessly in love that I can’t bear it.

I can still leave the internship. The thought hasn’t left my mind. But I’m not a quitter. I’ve never been a quitter. My mother taught me that much. She never quit, and eventually she got us off the streets.

I never quit either, and I graduated high school with honors and gained a college education for my efforts.

This internship is an opportunity, and never once have I turned down an opportunity.

Besides, leaving the man I love isn’t truly an option for me.

My feelings for him are so strong, so intense, that I’m not sure I can even exist outside his presence anymore.

I chuckle to myself. I sound ridiculous. I don’t need a man to make my life complete. I need no one but myself. I proved that a long time ago.

But need… This elemental need I feel for Dale… It’s something so foreign to me.

Can I live without him?

Yes, I believe I can.

But it will be an empty life. As if the other half of my heart is missing.

I may need to adapt, though, because Dale may want me, even need me…

But he’ll never, ever love me.

My heart wants to shatter at the thought.

I wipe my mind as best I can and return my attention to the game. Dale is shooting again, and this time he’s much more focused. I stay quiet. I don’t want him blaming me for missing another shot.

I catch Brendan’s grin out of the corner of my eye.

Of all the people in this bar, he’s the only one who knows the truth of my feelings. He’s smiling. An encouraging smile.

I’m happy that I haven’t hurt him. His feelings for me are friendship and nothing more. Or at least they will be now, and he seems okay with it.

But he can’t help but notice Dale’s indifference toward me.

I return his smile, though halfheartedly. He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s asking me a question. Do I want to be saved? Do I want him to intervene?

I shrug.

Within a minute, he’s at my side. “Don’t let it get to you,” he whispers. “If he doesn’t come around, it’s his loss.”

I smile weakly once more. Sure, his loss. I don’t even disagree. The bigger problem, though, is that it’s also my loss. A loss I have no interest in bearing.

Dale stays focused and completes the game, dunking all the solid balls and then the eight ball.

Henry hands me his cue, smiling. “Looks like you’re up.”

Damn. I did say I’d play the winner.

I’m not bad at pool, but Dale’s better. Just by watching one game, I can already tell.

I draw in a breath. Here goes nothing.

Brock smiles. “I’ll take the next winner.”

“Changed your mind about playing, I see,” Dale says to Brock. Then he racks the balls and turns to me. “Ladies first.”

I nod and position myself at the foot of the table, my heart thundering against my rib cage.

Come on, Ash. Concentrate.

I execute a perfect break, after which I shoot two stripes into nearby pockets.

My third shot is… Well, it doesn’t exist. Dale or Brock might be able to make something out of this mess, but I can’t. I finally decide on a bank shot but I miss, sending several balls scattering even farther.

“Nice try,” Brendan says.

Those daggers Dale is shooting with his eyes? Brendan is their target now. Does Brendan know? Does he care? He seems his jovial self.

Dale picks up his stick and makes three shots in a row with perfect form.

As he eyes his fourth shot, I’m tempted to say something. You can do it!

But that would cause him to lose focus, and then he’ll shoot more invisible daggers at me, which I don’t want.

He finally decides on a shot, and though his form looks perfect to me, he misses.

I can’t help smiling, though. His flub has lined up some perfect shots for me. In fact, if I play this right…

I may be able to finish the game if I can get the eight ball where it needs to be.

The first three shots are easy. The thirteen in the left side pocket, the fifteen in the right side, and then a bank off the bumper to send the nine into the far corner.

Two striped balls left. The first is easy. Straight into the side pocket with little effort.

Only two balls lie between me and victory—the twelve and the eight.

Problem is, the eight is in the path of the twelve.

I can make this shot. I’ve done it before. But do I want to beat Dale?

For God’s sake. I’ve never dumbed down in my life, and I’m not about to start now. Besides, I may miss the shot. But I’ll give it my best effort.

I lean my stick against the table for a moment and stretch my arms, intertwining my fingers and cracking my knuckles. Not the most ladylike, but I don’t care. Then I pick up my stick, replenish the chalk, and take aim.

The trick is to hit the cue ball with enough force to jump over the eight ball and propel the twelve into the pocket. If I execute it properly, the eight ball will be lined up for the same corner pocket.

Here goes nothing.

I will myself not to tremble and line up the shot. Just the right amount of pressure, and—

Crap. Too hard.

All three balls, including the cue, land in the pocket.

Scratch.

Normally a scratch gives Dale a shot from anywhere on the table.

But not this time.

Because I drove both the eight ball and the cue ball into the pocket, it’s a forfeit.

Dale wins.

He wins after pocketing only three of his balls, while I pocketed six of mine. Seven, if you count the twelve that went in with the eight and the cue.

“Nice job, cuz.” Henry pats Dale’s shoulder.

Dale doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say thank you to Henry. He only shoots more daggers.