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.
She could allow herself just a bit of it, she reminded herself, as long as she didn't overstep. She took a sip and was pleased to notice she hadn't overextracted the coffee.
"I am impressed," he murmured.
He took the second - last - sip of his coffee and put down the cup. Kajsa felt the immediate, naturally predictable pang of sadness. He'd leave now, and she wouldn't see him for another month or so - or perhaps even longer. She hadn't been lucky enough to run into him every time she'd been in the publishing house.
"And I didn't use the Pencil as an excuse to see you," he said. "Linda said it was a matter of life and death. Obviously, she was exaggerating, but it seemed important."
"It is indeed important," Kajsa answered softly. "It was an 'accidental' gift," she joked. "I was at a book signing, and was introduced to the artist. I expressed my admiration, and we had a lovely chat. I was just starting then, but he knew my illustrations, and I was so excited that I made a rather silly comment about how I loved his unique manner of sharpening his pencils. He had several on his table, and he offered me one." Kajsa affectionately tapped her finger to the writing utensil she'd brought with her to the kitchen. "You'll have to forgive my air-headed artistic ways."
"I don't think that artists are air-headed," he said and carefully twirled his empty cup in his fingers. "I've seen how hard you lot work, especially illustrators. It's not like your drawings appear by magic."
Kajsa felt touched and smiled at him. "That's quite a compliment," she said. "I can't know for sure, but I assume it's similar to what coding must feel to you. You have rules and techniques to operate on, but at the same time it's like a flow that carries you away. And then you return to reality, and it's been five hours, and your fingers are cramping."
He gave out a low warm chuckle, and Kajsa's heart fluttered. She'd never heard him laugh before.
"Pretty much," he said and rose. "Well, thank you for the coffee."
"You're most welcome." She put down her cup as well. "I'll see you out."
He followed her into the hall, and she watched him go down on one knee and lace his boots. His glossy, coffee-coloured hair lay in somewhat dissarayed waves on top of his head. They looked silky and heavy, and she clasped her hands in front of her to fight the temptation.
If he hesitated or in any way indicated that one tiny cup of coffee hadn't quite sufficed, she would ask him out for dinner.
"Have a good evening," he said quietly, threw his scarf around his neck, and stepped aside, giving her access to the door.
Clearly, one tiny cup of her Turkish coffee was more than enough. She said her goodbyes and unlocked the door letting him out.
***
She flopped on her bed, pressing her face into the pillow, and groaned. She could just imagine what her Mother and Aunts would say about her behaving like a loved-up teenager.
'And at your age!' Aunt Sophia would tsk-tsk.
'And with a foreigner!' Aunt Cecilia would comment disapprovingly.
'And in such an obvious, unmannerly way!' Aunt Tora would denounce.
'Isn't he rather too old for you?' Aunt Charlotta would inquire sarcastically.
Kajsa rolled on her back and stared at the canopy of her bed. To think of it, she didn't know the man's age. There was quite a lot of grey on his temples, but it could be just genetics, or a result of a psychological trauma of active military service. She was no youth, either. At her age, her older sister had already had three children. Thankfully, being the middle child had its benefits - mainly, being left out of family politics. She wouldn't have been allowed her current freedom at 34 - or her previous dating, no matter how scarce and decorous it had been - had she been the oldest, or the baby of the family slash a celebrity like her younger sister.
Kajsa closed her eyes and sighed. Perhaps, it was time to admit that Danny Carter had no interest in her whatsoever. After all, he hadn't come because he wanted to see her. Linda had twisted his arm into it. Kajsa needed to accept that it would never go beyond her half-serious pining over the grumpy IT specialist, and see what they had for what it was: their short, shoptalk meetings were nothing but a small sweet bonus to visiting her workplace, like sprinkles on her hagelslag.
***
Two months later...
Her mobile rang, and she pulled it out of her handbag. She stared at her sister's private number glowing on the screen.
"Hey, Lou!" she answered.
"Catherine, we need to talk," Louise said in a tense voice. "It's confidential. Can you be overheard right now?"
"I'm in my car," Kajsa answered, switching to Ensammabergig as well. "So it's only Berg here." She met the driver's concerned eyes in the rearview mirror. "What's wrong?"
"I wanted you to hear it from me. I'm divorcing Gustaf."
Kajsa almost dropped her phone. "Pardon?"
"I'm divorcing him," Louise said firmly. "I wanted you to know before the official announcement - and before the press gets a hold of the information."
"Oh Louise, I'm so sorry." Kajsa frowned. "Whatever the cause, I can't imagine it's easy. Has something happened? Has he– Is he having an affair?"
Kajsa never particularly liked her brother-in-law. As funny as it would sound coming from a person of her background, she was never fond of politicians and diplomats - and Gustaf was the epitome of both.
"No, he's not," Lousie answered after a pause. "I am."
That was when the mobile did slip out of Kajsa's hand, and she quickly picked it up and pressed it to her ear.
"I'm– in a relationship with another man." Louise cleared her throat. "Obviously, it isn't a lapse of judgement, and I'm not making this decision lightly. I've given it a lot of thought."
There was a note of defiance in Louise's voice, and Kajsa couldn't help but smile.
"That is wonderful, Lou. I'm glad for you," she said softly. "Like I said, I'm sure it's been a difficult decision, and I trust your judgement." She realised that Berg had parked the Royce in its usual spot: around a corner, a block away from the publishing house. She gave the driver a grateful smile. "How are you weathering the storm of the family's reaction?" she asked into the phone.
"I'm exhausted," Louise grumbled. "Obviously, they are weary of a scandal. And they keep bringing up my children, especially Eric being the heir, of course."
"And I'm sure you keep reminding them that Gustaf had abdicated his succession rights from the start," Kajsa said.
"Of course I do!" Louise raised her voice in mild irritation. "It has always been Eric who will succeed Farfar. Our divorce will change nothing! Except, it'll allow me to be with the man I love!" Louise grew abruptly silent, probably embarrassed by her uncharacteristic emotional outburst. "Will you come to visit soon?" she continued after regaining her composure. "I could really use your support right now. Ingegerd is once again on some ski resort with yet another Hollywood totty. I'll call her after talking to you, but I don't expect her to show any interest in my boring love life."
Kajsa laughed softly and promised Louise to try. She hadn't visited Ensammaberg for almost six months. Perhaps, a short stay with her family wouldn't be such a bad idea.
She said goodbye to Louise, picked up her portfolio, and climbed out of the car. She leant to the window to give the driver a wave and noticed a thick manga volume and a bag of crisps on the seat next to him.
She was somewhat lost in her thoughts, making her way among the puddles on the pavement, when she had the proverbial feeling of being watched. She looked behind her expecting to see Berg peeking from his usual ambush location, but the driver wasn't there.
"Ms. Larsson?" A male voice made her sharply face the publishing house again.