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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