Her Crown Jewel (Hygge Royal Romance Series, Book 1)

Just One Tiny Cup

She opened her coffee cabinet, stretched her hand to the Iraqi dallah, but then changed her mind. When he showed up, she was done grinding the beans. He came to an abrupt stop in the archway and looked around. The ground floor of her flat was of an open design, so one could see the studio at the back, and on the other side of the sitting room, the stairs leading to the mezzanine where her bedroom was.

Kajsa pointed at one of the stools at the counter island. "How about you take a seat? For once, someone would be comfortable on that perch. It's too tall for me."

He picked up the chair and moved it without dragging it on the floor, probably mindful of the tiles. Kajsa made sure not to ogle his biceps that bulged under his jumper.

"No sugar, right?"

"I'll take some," he said. "If you normally add it before brewing." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "It's Turkish, innit? That's a kanaka," he said pointing at the pot she'd taken out.

Kajsa nodded, surprised. "Are you a coffee connoisseur, Mr. Carter? It's only called kanaka by the aficionados in Egypt."

"No, I served there," he answered.

He had his hands on the counter. They weren't a safe place to rest her gaze, either: his long, well-defined fingers were interlaced, his nails short and clean. Overall, his hands were looked after, but not pampered; masculine and large, but not uncouth - and so very attractive to her she had to bite her bottom lip to take her inappropriate urges to 'accidentally' touch them under control.

"Oh, I forgot, you're ex-military," she said and poured water in the cezve. "I considered making you the Arabic one, but wasn't sure if you'd enjoyed the spices. I'm glad I've guessed."

"I've served in Iraq as well," he deadpanned.

Kasja once again whipped her head. It would be rather beneficial for her mental state if she could know for sure whether she was imagining a smile hiding in his eyes. There was no telling, though. The man excelled in keeping his face as deadpan as Utvandrarmonumentet in Karlshamn.

"Very well," she answered and jokingly shook a spoon at him. "Next time I'll make sure to employ my Baghdad kettle."

"Are you a coffee connoisseur?" he asked, tilting his head in the inquisitive gesture she'd only seen a handful of times before. His glacial eyes were attentively peering into hers.

"I'm Nordic, Mr. Carter," she laughed. "We live on coffee."

"That's not a nationality, though," he drew out. "'Nordic.' It's vague." Kajsa halted, her hand hovering over the cezve. "There's no background information in your file," he continued calmly. "And you've just pronounced 'Baghdad' without the English accent."

She stirred the coffee, took out the cups, and went back to the cezve.

"You're awfully sharp, aren't you, Mr. Carter?" she said and chuckled. "By the way, I'm not avoiding looking at you, I'm just watching our coffee. And I am Nordic. I have a double citizenship, Swedish and British. Did you use my poor Pencil as an excuse to come here and to investigate?"

He didn't answer. Kajsa tore her eyes off their drink for a second and burst into merry laughter at the view of his slightly frowning face and his tense posture.

"I'm joking, Mr. Carter!" She pressed her curled up index finger to her lips, giggling. "I'm endlessly grateful that you made all this effort to bring me my Pencil. I couldn't focus all day. It's a precious memento."

She spooned foam into their cups and returned the coffee on the stove. The crema formed again, and she poured their drink.

"I'm not a spy, Mr. Carter," she said, putting his cup in front of him. "I'm just rich, posh, and spoilt. Hence, the lack of my private information. Also, I learnt to make Arabic coffee in a class taught by a person from Baghdad. As for the accent, I'm afraid I was just showing off." She stayed standing and lifted her cup to her lips. "Maybe, I hoped you'd be just a little bit impressed," she added flirtatiously.