Berg took a step back as soon as Carter opened the door. Kajsa gave the driver a grateful smile over her shoulder, and Carter followed Berg with his eyes as the blond man headed down the stairs.
"Like in middle school," Carter muttered.
Kajsa looked up at him. "Pardon?"
He met her eyes. "Evening."
"Hi."
She thought that she needed to take her grinning under control, and stepped into the hall. She glimpsed around, while he was hanging her coat in a small closet - mostly to avoid ogling him. The soft tee hugging his torso, and his simple dark jeans, sitting low on his hips, were rather stimulating
"It's a corner one, so it's odd," he said. It took her a second to understand that he was talking about the flat. "The bedroom and bathroom are that way." He pointed to her right along a dark narrow corridor. "And the living area and kitchen are there. So, no balcony, but the lounge has two sets of windows."
"Do you mind if I take off my shoes?" Kajsa said. "I've stepped in a puddle."
He nodded, and she unbuckled the strap of her Bottega Veneta on her ankle. She wobbled, and he caught her under her elbow. Kajsa gave out an embarrassed chuckle.
"You have frighteningly fast reflexes," she murmured.
Barefoot, she felt unusually short, but it was probably just because of standing next to him. She caught him glance at her feet, and then he made an inviting gesture towards the living area.
"I've ordered Lebanese," he said, following her into the sitting room.
"Sounds great! I love–"
Words stuck in her throat, and she made a croak-like noise.
"Are these– Are they yours?!" she exclaimed and twirled on one spot, drinking in her surroundings.
Every wall of the room was covered in framed photographs. She immediately knew the answer to her question: there was a large desk in the corner of the room, under the aforementioned two sets of windows. A wide, ceiling-high shelving unit had photo equipment neatly organised on it: cameras, lenses, flashes, labelled containers of cables and some other parts she didn't recognise.
He probably nodded in response, but she wasn't looking. She was frozen in front of the first photo she'd approached, unable to tear her eyes off the smiling face of a small boy, dirt smeared on his cheeks, his top front teeth missing. To think of it, most of the pictures seemed to be portraits.
"This one's from Egypt," he said, and she whipped her head and stared at him. He studied the photo of the boy, frowning. "My second tour."
Kajsa shifted her gaze onto the next one. On it, two young men, shirtless, in military trousers, were squatting over something on the ground. Kajsa moved closer, and saw that it was a scorpion. One of the soldiers was facing the camera, his eyes widened in childish surprise.
"They're amazing!" she breathed out. "Danny! You're so talented!"
She walked to the next frame, and then to the one next to it. She bent and then rose on her tiptoes, peering at a photo after a photo.
"That's flattering. Coming from an artist," he said quietly behind her.
Kajsa laughed softly. "I'm not biased! I wouldn't have sugarcoated it, if they'd been mediocre, even though–"
She didn't continue. Neither 'even though I'm your girlfriend,' nor 'even though we're dating' sounded right in her head. If anything, 'even though I fancy you' would express her view of their relationship best. After all, they'd just had three dinners together.
"Oh, that's mesmerising," she breathed out in front of the photograph of a busy urban street, a crowd rushing along the pavement and the blurs of cars, half-hidden behind a wall of drizzle of rain. "Danny, they're breathtaking!" Kajsa pressed her hands to her chest. "Are they all black and white?"
"I'm colour-blind."
Kajsa gawked at him. The realisation that she truly knew nothing about the man was poignant.
"I've got moderate tritanomaly," he continued. "Blue-weak vision. I was born with it, and the sun and sand have made it worse."
"So everything is pink and cyan to you?" She shook her head, once again absorbed in looking at his photos. "My eyes are green, by the way."
She felt his presence next to her, and then he picked up her chin with his curled index finger and turned her face towards him and up. She blinked frantically, because he was suddenly so very close.
"My glasses are corrective," he murmured.
"Um... I'm not sure what you–" Her voice was coarse. All she could see was the bright blue of his irises and his long, thick eyelashes. "What were you saying–"
One corner of his lips curled up. "They are green."
"Who?" Kajsa swallowed a knot in her suddenly tight throat.
He placed a light kiss on her cheek and let her go.
"Should we eat?" he asked, straightening up.
She fought the urge to touch her chin where his finger as if had left a burning spot. She was somewhat unstable on her feet. Unsure whether she'd sound normal, she just nodded and followed him into the kitchen.
She'd made a beeline to the bathroom to wash her hands. Like in the other parts of his flat, she was struck by how pristine and faceless everything was. She doubted he'd cleaned up for her sake: it was obvious he simply owned only the most necessary things and kept them in order. She wasn't getting an obsessive or neurotic impression from the bare minimum of products lined up on the shelf either, one towel hanging on the rack surprisingly straight, or the almost speckless wall of his shower. She could just imagine how taking care of his things was an automatic behaviour for him. The lack of frivolous niceties made sense too. Growing up without a mother, at an army base, moving a lot most likely, he wouldn't have developed a habit of accumulating knick-knacks or concerning himself with pretty curtains.
Their dinner was arranged on the table in the living area. The kitchen had a half-wall separating it from the lounge. Kajsa peeked behind the partition and saw him taking out two wine glasses from the cupboard.
"I only have these." He lifted one to show her. "I don't know if they're for red or white."
"You surprise me, Mr. Carter." Kajsa snorted. "I always expect you to google everything beforehand."
He gave her a long unreadable look, and Kajsa's cheeks flushed.
"I forgot to," he deadpanned finally and opened another cupboard. "I was nervous," he said, without turning to her, pulling out two plates.
"That surprises me even more." Kajsa edged into the kitchen. "You don't strike me as the type to be nervous about–" She was now right next to him, and he glanced at her over his glasses. "Having guests," she finished the sentence.
"I rarely do." He carefully put the plates down on the narrow counter. "With my mates, we usually go to a pub. Or a sports bar. And it's easier to visit family than to have them over."
"You should, though. Your flat is lovely." Kajsa smiled at him. "There's no clutter, but it also feels cosy. Trust a Nordic person. We're very sensitive to a vibe from a place," she said cheekily. "Yours is very... hygge."
"I think," he said and took off his spectacles, "you are biased after all."
And then he leaned in and caught her mouth. When she'd been washing her hands, she had thought that they hadn't kissed even once - and now she got her answer whether he'd noticed.
Somehow, today he seemed much bolder and more assertive: with his left palm on the back of her neck, she felt his right hand on her hip, and he squeezed her, his thumb pressing into the round bone there. Kajsa stretched up, wrapping her arms around his neck - and he picked her up under her backside, turned around, and plopped her on the lower counter near the opposite wall. It was too tall, she now needed to bend her neck down, but the new angle was exciting. Her hands were now free to roam, and the soft curls behind his ears, the ears themselves, and his beard were all hers for the taking. Her legs around him, she felt his right hand slide up her thigh, under the hitched up skirt of her dress. She tilted her head, encouraging his lips greedily dancing on her neck, and he nipped her skin.
"Kajsa..."
"Hm?" She felt hot and drunk - and so very happy - but she could still understand that he hadn't just breathed out her name like a character in a romance novel. "What is it?"
"We've only got two hours," he murmured and dragged his half-open mouth along the side of her throat. "So we should either eat, or–"
He didn't finish - but he didn't have to.
"Why only two hours?" she asked, dropping her head back now, because he'd just brushed the tips of his fingers along her collarbone, from her shoulder to her jugular notch, and then down, and she wanted him to continue.
"I need to drive to my brother's place," he murmured and kissed just above the neckline of her dress.
Kajsa froze - wanting to ask and unsure whether she had the right to - and he withdrew, his hands pressed into the counter near her hips, caging her just like during their first dinner.
"My Dad's house-sitting for my brother's family while they're on holidays," he said, his gaze on her lips. "And he fell. I need to bring him food for a week and check on him. He called me after I'd invited you."
He lifted his eyes and was now gauging her reaction. She quickly organised the new information in her mind, somewhat entertained by his habitual concise manner of speaking.
"You should've cancelled," she said softly.
"He's sprained his wrist, and he's back in the cottage already," he said, hardly noticeable defensiveness in his voice. "I'll buy him groceries on the way and stay the night."
Kajsa ran her fingers through his hair on his temple, which she'd enthusiastically dishevelled just a few seconds ago.
"How were you going to drink wine?"
"One glass is fine." He gave her a charmingly grumpy look. "Can we at least... eat?"
Kajsa couldn't hold back a giggle. "So, you've given up on the alternative, I see."
"Is it still a possibility?" he asked, and she burst into laughter and pressed her forehead to his.
"We should eat quickly, and you should go," she said.
"I don't want to." His hand was once again on her nape, scorching and demanding. He muttered, "I'm not hungry," just before he crashed his lips into hers.
Kajsa fought the temptation valiantly and spoke up once he'd moved onto her jaw.
"Then you should–" Kajsa stuttered, since he seemed to have doubled his highly successful seduction efforts. She was starting to suspect she had grossly underestimated the real Danny Carter hiding under the mild manners and the stone face. "I can text Berg right away, and–"
Carter made a growl-like noise, and with a low frustrated 'Bugger!' he pulled back and lifted his face to the ceiling.
He was taking slow measured breaths, and Kajsa fancied him so much at that moment that, on an uncharacteristic, endlessly non-Nordic impulse, she asked with excessive familiarity - very much jokingly - and stroked his chest, "Would you like me to go with you?"
He met her eyes and said firmly, "Yeah, I do."