Free To Each Her Own (The Swirl Book 1) by Sylvia Sinclair Page A

accents and brown pillows. He had a sixty-five inch HDTV, and a Bose music system with acoustic speakers along an eight foot shelf. He played smooth jazz. The song was “Save Yourself For Me” by Hiroshima.
    He told her, “At times, I think these colors are battling against each other. It’s a rainbow collation in here. All I need are black-light posters with Angela Davis and Huey P. Newton pumping black-power fists.”
    “No you don’t. This is far from that, Ramón. It’s classy. I’m very impressed.” She put her handbag on the end of the sofa and sat down, pointing to a large framed picture along the wall. “Is that your mom and dad?”
    “Yes. That’s Luis and Gloria Vaz.”
    “Great looking couple.”
    “Thanks. I don’t know about him, but she is a looker, I know that much.”
    “Yes, she is.”
    He went into the kitchen.
    “Sorry I’m so late. Did you eat yet?”
    “Oh no. Waited for you. I’m good.
    “Good. It smells great in here.”
    “Well come on over here and we’ll see if it taste as great as it smells.”
    She stood and went to the dining room table.
    He walked up and pulled out her chair.
    She sat and scooted forward. “Thank you. Did your dad teach you to be such a gentleman?” There were white plates, silverware, bottled wine and wine glasses, a pitcher of water and water glasses, as well as a bowl of fresh parmesan cheese.
    “He did.” He stepped back to the kitchen. “I hope you like garlic, because while some people might use only one single garlic clove, I use ten. Just warning you.”
    “Good. My kind of guy.”
    “That’s what I’m saying. Breath mints await us both.”
    He brought back a small bowl of four slices of garlic toast, and a big bowl of the shrimp pasta. He placed them on the table.
    “Oh my goodness, that looks so good.” She inhaled.
    He sat across from her. “Well thank you.” He pointed to the bottles of wine. “I have this red wine, or this white.”
    “White is perfect.” She put the paper napkin along her lap.
    He popped the cork and poured the wine into the fluted glass, then placed the wine back on the table.
    “Thanks, my friend.”
    He gave a nod.
    “What are you drinking?”
    He pointed to the water glass. “Just water for now.”
    “I see.”
    She picked up her fork.
    He leaned over and took her hand.
    He bowed his head and she followed. “Bless this food, O Lord, and ourselves to Thy loving service; that we may always continue in Thy faith and fear to the honor and glory of Thy name, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” He released her hand.
    “Amen.” She nodded her head, taking note.
    “Sorry we didn’t do that at the restaurant. We should’ve. I tend to do it more at home, but like I said, we should’ve. And we will, my friend.”
    She picked up her fork, not missing his returned friend comment. “Deal.”
    “Dig in.” His dimples were at their deepest.
    They devoured their meals and soon were sitting along the sofa, him sitting one cushion away from her, more jazz playing. She was comfortable, barefoot, wiggling her powder blue painted toes, and her legs were crossed and he sat next to her, scrolling through his phone. The TV was on Family Feud , but muted. The music that escorted the TV was a slow jam mix; a combination of “Nice and Slow” by Usher, and Ginuwine’s “In Those Jeans,” among others. She sipped more wine and listened, feeling full, feeling relaxed. She adjusted the chocolate brown throw along her legs.
    Ring. Ring. Ring.
    “It’s my dad,” he said to Shasta. He just texted me and now he’s calling.” He put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad. Yep. Hold on one second.” He told her, “I need to get something.” He put the phone down, stood up and went past the dining room, down the hall.
    Her instincts wanted her to believe that it wasn’t really his dad, that he’d been sitting there texting someone else, and that he went into the other room to talk to one of his many women.
    But then