Alex shifts beside me and glances down just as his stomach lets out a loud, unmistakable growl. “Well, I guess you heard that. Are you ready for breakfast?”
Not really, but I know that look in his eyes. My man is always hungry. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“I’m taking you somewhere special.”
The cafe he takes us to is tucked into the side of a small general store. The moment we step through the door, the scent wraps around me—sweet bread, strong coffee, something buttery and warm.
Behind the counter stands an aging woman, her gray hair wrapped in a cheerful floral scarf, eyes sharp and kind. When she sees Alex, her entire face brightens.
“Alexander!” She says his name with a heavy Swedish accent and rounds the counter with a hug that’s all backbone and affection. He responds in soft, fluent Swedish, his voice low as he speaks to her.
I stand back and watch their interaction unfold; this a version of him I’ve never seen before.
“She refuses to learn English.”
She turns to me, and her smile deepens. Alex introduces us in Swedish first, then in English. Her name is Britta, and she used to bake cinnamon rolls for his father when he was a boy.
She kisses the sides of my face and says, “Ahhh… vacker, Alexander.”
Alex smiles. “Britta says you’re beautiful.”
Oh, how sweet. “How do I say thank you?”
“Tack but if you want to show off you can say Tack så mycket. That means thank you very much.”
Of course I want to show off. “Tack så mycket.”
She beams and kisses the sides of my face again, saying something else I don’t understand.
Then she moves to Alex, cupping his cheeks in both hands. She kisses the sides of his face too—twice, quick and warm—before muttering something tender in Swedish.
Alex laughs under his breath, his hand finding the small of my back. “She tells me I look like Dad,” he says. “She says it every time she sees me, and I always feel like I should correct her, because clearly, I don’t look like Dad.”
We’re about to have our first disagreement as husband and wife. “You’re wrong, Alex. Just because your coloring and body builds are different doesn’t mean you don’t look like your father. She sees something in you that reminds her of Alexander, and I see it too.”
His brow wrinkles. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
Britta disappears into the back of the cafe and we slide into a small corner booth, the table a little wobbly, the napkins folded into triangles. A few locals linger near the stove, speaking in Swedish.
She comes back, placing a plate between us—still-warm cinnamon buns, sugar crusted and thick with cardamom—and two mugs of thick hot chocolate that smell like heaven.
“Tack så mycket, Britta.”
He slides the plate to me. “Best cinnamon roll you’ll ever eat.”
I tear off a piece from the center and pop it into my mouth. It’s soft and rich, with the perfect amount of cinnamon, the sugar caramelized just enough to stick to my fingertips. I close my eyes and moan. “Oh my God.” I grab another bite. “Damn, Alex. These are better than Cinnabons.”
He leans back, smug as hell. “Told you.”
I finish the roll, all grace thrown out the window, and lick the cinnamon off my thumb while he grins at me. We drink hot chocolate between bites, thick and sweet and a little salty, with a hint of something I can’t name but want more of.
The air smells of vanilla and nostalgia in this quiet little cafe tucked away in a village I never would’ve found on my own. I’m full and warm and content.
“You’ve ruined me with these cinnamon rolls. None will ever compare to these.”
