MISSING LINK

Chapter 2

The doorbell chimed, and I quickly checked the guest room, ensuring everything was in order before hurrying downstairs. I eagerly swung open the heavy, arched foyer door, eager to meet my new roommate. At 44, a year post-divorce, I was craving any sort of distraction, and having a self-sufficient young adult in the house seemed like the perfect solution. Living vicariously through my friends' adventures was no longer enough, and neither were my usual pastimes of painting, reality TV, or indulging in nighttime vices. The cavernous mansion had become suffocating, with every sound I made echoing off the cathedral ceilings. Hosting an international student for a year felt like both a charitable act and a way to quench my own thirst for change. I did my research and applied to a university in my state to house a university student from France for one year. 

It was late July and the day had finally arrived. As I swung open the door, my excitement was palpable. However, my eagerness was quickly replaced by astonishment when I was met with the gaze of a young man straight out of a GQ magazine.

"Mrs. Mitchell?" he inquired.

He wasn't exactly the typical college student I had expected. In fact, he looked like he had just stepped off a runway. My tongue felt tied in knots as I managed to stammer, "Ms."

"I'm Link," he introduced himself, extending his hand for a shake. I stood there, frozen, unable to release my grip on the door.

I swallowed hard, still struggling to find my voice. His tall, impeccably proportioned physique seemed sculpted to perfection. I had to physically tear my eyes away from him.

Thankfully, the gentle sounds of the courtyard's waterfall provided some respite from the awkward silence that lingered between us. I convinced myself that this was one of Claudette's elaborate pranks. She was the queen of mischief, and this had her fingerprints all over it.

With a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, I invited this striking stranger inside, offering him a seat on the chaise lounge in the foyer.

"Could you give me just a moment?" I managed to say, my words still a bit shaky. "I'll be right back."

"No problem," he replied with a friendly smile. I retreated behind the safety of the kitchen walls, snatched my smartphone from the granite countertop, and dialed Claudette's number.

"Girl!" I exclaimed in an exaggerated whisper. "What on earth is at my front door?! This better be one of your pranks. He's here, and it's not funny!"

The line went eerily silent.

"...Misty, are you off your meds or something? What in the world are you talking about?"

"The French, Adonis you sent to my doorstep! He's right here in my foyer," I whispered urgently, occasionally glancing over my shoulder.

"Mitsy? Girl, you've officially lost it. I swear Quamie must have put something in the air filters before he left."

"Swear this isn't a joke, Claudette!"

"I swear on all my hair..."

"Even your cat's hair?"

"I swear!"

"Damn it, Claudette! Bye."

"Bonsoir ma belle," she teased mockingly. "Call me when you figure it out."

I ended the call and took a deep breath before re-entering the foyer.

My unexpected yet strangely anticipated guest was still seated, waiting patiently. I acted as though nothing unusual had just transpired.

"Please... call me Misty," I said warmly this time, extending my arm for a handshake.

"Is everything okay, Ms... uh, Misty?" he asked with a hint of concern.

"Oh, yes," I waved a dismissive hand toward the kitchen, "I was on a call just before you arrived. I had to let them know I had company," I lied.

I attempted to offer help with his suitcase, but he politely declined with a charming smile. His hand brushed against mine, sending an electric thrill through me.

"Allow me to show you to your room," I said, my voice tinged with both fluster and a growing sense of desire. His intoxicating scent enveloped me, awakening my most fervent senses. As I led him up the spiral staircase, I couldn't help but wonder what I had gotten myself into.

Link Dior, a twenty-eight-year-old Parisian Ph.D. student in his fourth year, was turning my life upside down. His eyes seemed to linger on me from behind, and I couldn't help but wonder if the allure of 'Big Booty Judy' was just as potent in France.

I left him to get settled and went back down to the kitchen to prepare a pre-planned Italian-style home cooked meal. Maria, my housekeeper, was off for three days. She normally did the cooking, but on her days off, I enjoyed dabbling in a bit of culinary cuisine.

I made a simple spaghettini with black olives, olive oil, and pesto sauce. Link must have smelled the aromas because I could hear him heading toward the kitchen. He walked in wearing a dazzling smile.

"Smells délicieux," he commented in his velvety and equally delicious accent.

His Herculean presence unnerved me. In my head, my mouth was still gaping at the human, early Thanksgiving gift that had arrived at my front door. I played it as cool as I could on the outside. Inside, I was sizzling. Adding to the complexity, my once-dormant libido had now stirred from its deep slumber.

"Thank you, Link," I replied.

"No, thank you..." he grinned, "for hosting me, Mrs. – Ms..."

"Misty," I insisted.

"Misty...yes, I hope I won't be too much trouble for you."

'Oh, honey,' I crooned in my head as I stacked the dishwasher, 'it's too late for that.'

"I'm sure you won't. Can I make you a cup of coffee or tea?" I asked.

His eyebrows furrowed.

"Make me?"

"Prepare for you," I chuckled.

"Ah... yes, I would like you to make me a cup of coffee. Un double double," his French accent tickled me. I imagined it was going to be fun helping him with his English and learning a new language at the same time.

"One double, double coming up," I giggled. "Am I right?"

His smile broadened. "Correct!" he praised.

We ate supper, sipped, and chatted for hours. He filled me in on his program curriculum and expressed his short-term ambitions, explaining why he had chosen to complete his final year in New York. Sometimes, he struggled to find the right words, and he would run his fingers through his almost shoulder-length hair whenever I didn't understand what he was trying to say. I was exceptionally patient with him and always helped him find the right words.

When I finally took my eyes off him to glance at the time on the microwave, it was almost 7pm. I got up to load our dishes in the dishwasher and caught him eyeing me from my peripheral vision. I stiffened, suddenly self-conscious.

"Do you mind if I go to my room and get some rest, Misty?" He eased himself off the stool.

"Not at all, you must be so exhausted. I'll be down here preparing dinner if you need anything," I stuttered. He walked towards me, and I pointed toward the dining room entryway. He ignored my gesture and continued toward me.

Blood drained from my head as he took my hand. My cougar-fueled libido activated as he kissed the back of it.

"I appreciate you," he murmured, looking down at me. Embarrassed, I looked away, afraid he would sense my true feelings.

"Thank you, um... Link," I muttered, almost forgetting his name.

"Again, I thank you, Misty. I am so grateful for the chance to live in America."

I watched his tall, steely frame retreat, my gaze trailing him like a thirsty traveler in a desert. Relief washed over me when he disappeared from view because my eyes, ignited by an intense hunger, felt like they were about to burst into flames.