Eyes: green

Hair: dark

Height: 6’4” and above

Age: |

I’m undecided if I should include only the 30-34 range or expand it to 25-29 and 35-39. What if the perfect man is 29 or 35? I select all three, just to be on the safe side.

Languages: |

I check English and Italian and click Search.

With my heart in my throat, I wait for the results. Does such a man even exist?

The search engine lands three positive hits. Wow. Apparently, there are a lot more tall, dark-haired, Italian-speaking men in New York than I thought.

I open the first profile, and the picture of a beautiful man pops on the screen. I say “beautiful” because it’s clear that this male model favors his feminine side. It’s in the delicate pout of his lips and the graceful tilt of his head. No one would ever believe he’s in love with me.

I close his profile and open the next one.

Jackpot!

Now, if a man could ever be described as dark, smoldering hot, and mysterious, this guy has nailed all three. The headshot is pretty simple: he’s staring at the camera straight up, face forward. His wavy black hair is just long enough to be very sexy, as sexy as his full-lipped mouth, and his green eyes are piercing a hole through the screen. Tyra Banks would say he’s smizing at the camera.

I study the picture a little longer… His straight nose is sprinkled with freckles that make him cute on top of sexy. And even the line of his neck is masculine and inviting. He is the perfect man. He’s my guy.

His other pictures only reinforce my conviction. A profile shot: equally sexy. One of him smiling: heart-melting. And…

Whoa.

The last picture is a black and white bust shot. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious is wearing jeans and teasingly lifting a tank top to reveal his bare chest while he stares at the camera with a naughty expression—eyes alive with mischief and mouth curled up at one corner in a lopsided grin. The shot takes my breath away. This must be photoshopped; no real person could really have abs and pectorals that sculpted.

Reluctantly, I close the picture and open his profile.

Diego O’Donnell, age twenty-eight. Two years younger than me, but we live in a modern era where a two-year gap a cougar doesn’t make. From his CV I see that the guy has done a few lesser gigs on Broadway and has a couple of high-level commercials under his belt. But nothing so big that it’ll make him snub my proposal. Mr. O’Donnell still fits the struggling artist profile.

Mmm, let’s see where you live.

The address listed on his file is far away enough from Manhattan to tell me he’s not swimming in cash.

Good.

Because I need someone just as desperate as me to take this job.

Fueled up by adrenaline, I save his contact on my phone and press Call.