Advertising for Love (7 page)

Greg stroked her hair. “Well, you did a pretty good job of letting me run things a few minutes ago.” He kissed her forehead.

“Mmm, and you certainly did run things.”
 

“And I know for damn sure I’m not a loser.”

Aisha snorted. “You’ve got that right. You’re the farthest thing from it.” She buried her head into his chest again, enjoying his presence—the sound of their soft breathing a perfect complement to the sunny beams scattered across the bed. “And what about you? How is it that a handsome man like yourself is single?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What?”

“It takes a special kind of woman to date an escort.” His voice grew low. “I understand it. I mean, I do entertain women for a living.” He paused for a moment. “Does my job bother you?”

Aisha looked at his handsome face, his brown eyes staring deeply into hers. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it. And I don’t think so.” She trailed her fingers down his smooth chest, watching it rise and fall to his steady breathing. “I’m actually surprised. I mean, perhaps it should.” She looked back at him. “But it doesn’t.”

“Good. Because this is my job. It’s what I do for a living, how I pay my bills, and I want you to understand that before we get in this any further. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and my entire family knows it and accepts it. If we’re going to see where this thing goes, I need to know you accept it as well.

Aisha could see the earnestness flashing in his eyes. “I do. I do accept it.”

“Okay good. Remember, it’s just a job. I don’t get emotionally involved with my clients.”

Aisha smirked. “Not even with me?”

Greg grinned and took her hand, entwining her fingers with his own. She lay her head back down on his bare chest. “Well, you’re no longer my client, now are you?”

She could hear his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. “I guess I’m not.”

Chapter Seven

“My God, I’ve been calling you forever.” Tanya sounded exasperated on the other end of the phone. “Where have you been? How did it go? Did you get some ass last night? Details, woman! I need details!”

Aisha laughed. “Okay, so before I say anything, I just want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For what? For hooking me up.” Fresh from the shower, Aisha stretched out on her patio chair, her face tilted toward the warm sun.
 

“So it went well, I take it?”

“Mmm. Very well.”

“Stop teasing me, Aisha! Give me the details. Who did they hook you up with?”

“Greg. Greg Williams.” The sound of his name made Aisha smile.

“Hmm. I’ve never had him. Was he fine?”

“Only the finest man I’ve seen in a long time.”

“I told you,” Tanya squealed. “Did you bone? How was his body? Was he hung?”

“Yes. Fantastic. Yes.”

“Oooh, girl. That’s what I’m talking about.” Tanya chuckled. “That must have been some good dick, too, because you still sound relaxed even today.”

“Well, I am relaxed, considering he just left about thirty minutes ago.”

“What? He spent the night? Damn, how much did that cost you?”

“Nothing.” A refreshing breeze washed over her. “He went home last night, but this morning he picked me up and we went out to breakfast. Have you ever heard of Rita Mae’s Cafe?”

“No.” Tanya paused. “Wait. Are you saying you went out with him again this morning?”

“Yep. The restaurant is this little place on the West side. It looks completely broken down from the outside, but the food was fantastic. Greg knows Auntie Rita. He grew up going to the restaurant as a kid. Oh, and he’s a chef. He went to culinary school, and he wants to open his own restaurant one day, but he’s waiting—”

“Wait,” Tanya interrupted her gushing. “He took you out to breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t pay for it?”

“No. It was a real date. I didn’t pay for his company or anything.”

Tanya paused. “Oh, no, girl.”

“What?”

“He’s an
escort
. You can’t date him.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Tanya sounded incredulous. “Because he’s an
escort
. He fucks women for a living. And they pay him. I hate to sound harsh, but that makes him a prostitute. A very fine, very hung, chef prostitute. But a prostitute just the same. And you can’t date a prostitute.”

“Stop calling him a prostitute.”

“But he is.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Aisha.” Tanya sighed. “Okay, think of it this way. How many years has he been a pros— an escort?”

“Ten.”

“Ten? Damn!” Tanya groaned. “Then he’s had sex with thousands of women. Thousands! Do you want to date someone like that?”

“So? I don’t care about the number. Half the men on the street have slept with thousands of women and have the babies to prove it.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to date them either.” Tanya’s volume increased. “Does he have any children?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t you think that’s something important to know?”

“Yeah, but I’ll find that out eventually. Besides, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Even if his baby momma is a former client?”

Aisha paused. “No.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Look, I know this thing doesn’t make any sense. But I don’t know, I’m really feeling Greg.” She looked out at the rippling lake. With not a cloud overhead, the water and the sky formed one expanse of blue. “I just gotta go with this one. See how it plays out.”

“Well, for the record, I think this is a terrible idea, and I hope you don’t get your feelings hurt.”

Aisha hoped she didn’t get her feelings hurt as well.

Chapter Eight

Greg set the tray down in front of her. The fragrant steam rose from the crusty Panini, the melted cheese oozing down the sides. On the tray also sat a small plate heaped high with potato chips and a bowl of strawberries with a mountain of whipped cream. A beer fresh from the fridge was squeezed in the corner, and the beads of perspiration ran down its long neck and formed a small pool of water on the tray.

“This looks fantastic.” Aisha sat up and pushed the rumpled sheets to the side. Greg’s discarded T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor by the bed, and she grabbed it and put it on before turning back to her lunch. “Did you do all of this just now?”

“Yeah, it was easy. These don’t take very long to make.”

Aisha picked up the sandwich and took a bite. The flavors exploded in her mouth. “What’s in this?”

“It’s just a grilled chicken breast, spinach and some goat cheese. Oh, and a homemade raspberry dijon mustard.”

“That you just whipped up.” Aisha took another bite.

Greg chuckled. “Well, yeah. I am a chef, you know.”

“And what about these?” Aisha held up a potato chip. “Did you just whip these up, too?”

“No.” Greg took one off of her plate and ate it. “Those I bought. But next time, I can make the potato chips too, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, you know, you really should do that because clearly you’re slipping on this whole lunch thing.” Aisha tried to keep herself from smiling. “I mean, how could you even think to serve me potato chips from a bag?” She ate one. “Oh, hold on. These are Snaps. My favorite. I’ll let the whole potato chip thing slide. This time.”

“You like Snaps too? Best potato chip on the market, especially the barbeque ones.”

“I love those.” Aisha took a sip from her ice cold beer. “You know, I grew up not far from the factory. Some days you’d go outside and the air would smell like potato chips.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” Aisha took another big bite from her rapidly disappearing sandwich. “There was nothing better than going down to the corner store on a sunny summer day—the air smelling like frying potatoes—and getting a bag of Snaps and a grape pop.”

“You like the grape? I liked the strawberry.”

“Your store had the strawberry? That’s fancy. Ours never did. Only grape and orange.” Greg scooted up next to her on the bed, making himself comfortable by propping pillows against the headboard. Shirtless, his ab muscles flexed and contracted with every move. Aisha’s sandwich now gone, she picked up the beer and leaned back. Her shoulder pressed up against his. “This was great. Thanks for convincing me to play hooky for a few hours.”

“Well, you work too hard.” He nudged her affectionately. “You need to take a break every once in a while.”

The cool bubbles tickled their way down her throat as she took a sip from the bottle. “I have to work hard.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’ve got bills to pay.”

“So let’s say you pay all of those bills.” Greg put his arm around her. “Then what would you use your money for?”

Aisha pondered Greg’s question for a moment. “Shoes.” Greg laughed. “And clothes, and purses. Oh, and to get my hair and nails done every week. And then to go on vacation.” She paused. “I’m sure I can come up with some other stuff if I think for a few minutes.

“Well, it’s a good thing you at least have a plan for your money.”

“No, really, in all seriousness, I don’t know what I’d do. I work because don’t know what else to do. As Tanya correctly points out, I’ve got a problem.”

“You’re ambitious.”

“I am.” She paused, remembering sunny summer days, air ripe with the smell of potato chips, and grape pop. “I think it’s because I grew up around people who weren’t, so I felt like I had to be doubly ambitious to make up for everyone else.”

“I understand that.” Greg grabbed another chip. “But money should be used for something. It should have a purpose.”

“Like for going to culinary school?”

“Like for gong to culinary school.”

“So tell me about that.” She finished the last sip of beer and placed it back down on the tray. “When did you first know you wanted to be a chef?”

“Oh ever since I can remember. My mom is a great cook, and I always helped her in the kitchen.”

“You did?” Aisha snuggled closer to Greg and put her head on his bare shoulder. The curtains billowed as the spring breeze wafted in through the open windows in Greg’s master bedroom. The office could wait a little while longer. “What’s her best dish?”

“Her seafood gumbo, hands down.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. When my mother makes her gumbo, all the neighbors, all the relatives, people you don’t like, people who normally wouldn’t give you the time of day, suddenly show up with a bowl and a spoon.” Aisha laughed. “It would make me so mad that all these people would just show up, eat my mother’s food, and leave, but she always told me if there was anything on the stove, people were welcomed to it.”

“Your mother sounds like a great woman.”

“Oh, she is.” Greg reached over and picked up the spoon on Aisha’s tray. “Speaking of food, try this.” He scooped up some strawberries and whipped cream and fed it to her. The berries had been soaked in something, and the sharp liqueur contrasted perfectly with the sweet berries and the smooth whipped cream. She looked at him. “It’s cognac.”
 

“So delicious.”

“Well, in the absence of a concentration in desserts and pastries, I do what I can.”

Aisha took the spoon from him and helped herself to another bite. “What do you mean?”

“Learning how to cook desserts and pastries is a whole other set of skills, and you can do a concentration in culinary school. I chose not to because I want to eventually run a restaurant that serves down-home cooking, so all I need to know how to make are the basics—peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, bread pudding, that kind of stuff.”

Aisha licked the last of the whipped cream off the spoon. “And you know how to make all of that?”

“Absolutely.”

She put the spoon back down on the tray and placed everything on the floor before snuggling up against him. “Well why didn’t you just go ahead and whip one of those up?” She shook her head slowly. “There you go again, slipping.”

Greg’s smile turned Aisha’s thoughts to having one more quickie before she had to return to the office. “I’ll try to do better next time,” he whispered, kissing the remnants of the strawberries from her lips.

Chapter Nine

“My God, this is delicious. What is this again?”

“Coq au vin. It’s a French dish. Braised chicken prepared with a wine-based sauce.”

“This is seriously tasty.” Aisha took another sip of her wine from her leaded crystal glass and relished the flavor profiles as they slid over her tongue. “So, exactly how many benefits are there to seeing a chef?”

“Many. And you haven’t experienced them all yet.”

“Oh, really? There’s more?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to wait until after dessert to find out.”

Aisha continued eating. She looked around Greg’s open kitchen in his cozy, North side home. Everything in it from the plates to the rugs on the hardwood floor to the pictures on the walls reflected Greg’s love of beauty and simplicity. And many small decorating touches revealed an understated but expensive personal sense of style.