Jaded by Rhonda Sheree

write?”
    “Fiction.”
    “Every day?” His eyes narrowed. “ Without fail?”
    “Well, I mean, sometimes I can’t.”
    “Ah, so you’re not getting in those ten thousand hours.”
    “What ten thousand hours?”
    He had the perfect view to sneak a glance at her bust. But his eyes stayed locked on hers.
    “Let me buy you a coffee and we can discuss the true meaning of passion.”
    “No, I–“
    Don’t be jealous just ’cause you’re not getting any.
    “Sure.” She smiled. “Grande soy chai.”
    When he pulled himself up to his full height, she noticed for the first time how broad his shoulders were beneath the form-fitting sweater. Syeesha wanted to peep his physique from behind. A second passed, then two. Just enough time for her to wait before turning around to catch a peek of Christian when he was unaware. To her surprise, he had stopped only a foot away from her as though waiting for her eyes to follow him.
    “Are you checking me out?”
    She whipped around in her chair; her face scorched with heat. In an attempt to look preoccupied, she pushed away her law book, pressed Command-S to save her work, and closed the lid of her laptop. She could smell the lingering scent he’d left behind. It wasn’t cologne, but a natural aroma that reminded her of being on the beach, light waves lapping on the softened sand and the intoxicating essence of salty water and fresh air. 
    Syeesha peeled her purse from the back of her chair. She set it on her lap, opened her compressed powder, and pretended to rummage through her purse while discreetly touching up her face. Her fingers hesitated for just a moment over the lip gloss but she decided against it. She was sure his sharp eyes would notice the difference. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was getting dolled up for him.
    He returned just as she was putting her bag away.
    “The ten-thousand-hour rule,” Christian continued as he set their drinks on the table with a few napkins, “is a concept Malcolm Gladwell spoke about in one of his books. That’s the magical number that highly successful people put into their crafts on an annual basis. Works out to roughly three hours a day, every single day, for years on end.”
    A quick roll of her eyes elicited a low, long chuckle from him.
    “What’s with the floating eyes?”
    She took a sip of her tea. “Who has that kind of time? I mean, three hours a day? People have to work, go to school, exercise.”
    He tilted his head in interest. “You work out?”
    “No.” She smiled. “But I would if I had the time.” 
    Another chuckle. This time he dropped his head and shook it as though happily defeated.
    Syeesha wanted to stop the heat from rising up her neck and warming her face. She had made him laugh. And he was making the palms of her hand moist from nervousness. She removed her hands from the warm cup.
    “You don’t pretend to be passionate about the law,” he said. “Which is good, I guess, because we both know that would be a crock. On the other hand, passion for a certain professor of ours . . .”
    “Hold on. I’m passionate about the law. Maybe not as much as you are, but still.”
    “Passion,” he said, “is the energy that gets us up in the morning and keeps us going when others quit. For me–” He shrugged. “I’m not crazy about all my classes. But I accept that the end goal is that I can someday be a lawyer, and then eventually an FBI agent so that I can put the really smart bad guys away. I am seriously passionate about that. You, on the other hand, obviously don’t derive your passion from school because that wasn’t the first thing out of your mouth just now. Writing was.”
    Syeesha squirmed a little in her seat. “You seem awfully young for such big goals. Law school, FBI.”
    “I’m twenty-six. And you?”
    Only two years younger than me. Thank you, God, for making him so totally legal. Wait. Why am I thanking God, exactly? He’s so not my type.
    She cleared her