I know I'm being a bit presumptuous here, but as a risk-taker yourself, you'll appreciate what I'm about to say.
You may think that's a little weird, given that we haven't met. But sometimes a guy just knows. Besides, I feel like I know you just from reading the court filings in your divorce proceedings with estranged hubby Frank.
And no, I'm not simply interested in the $487,634 a month you claim to need in spousal support so you can go on living in the manner to which you've become accustomed.
It's not the seven estates I'm after either, even if you did spend $14 million in home improvements on just one of them -- the one with the Olympic-size indoor swimming pool, an outdoor pool, sauna, steam room, dance studio, massage room and 10 bathrooms.
As for the private jets that whisk you to exclusive resorts around the globe, honey, I'm already platinum with US Airways. And it would never be about where we go, Jamie. It would be about what happens when we're together.
You want to know what I'm really after?
Glad you asked.
I like a woman of substance. And I'm attracted to pioneering spirits who swing for the fences.
Excuse me, Jamie McCourt, but did I just paint your portrait?
You're a law school grad, and you were the first female CEO of a Major League Baseball team, so I know you're motivated. You're standing up to hubby Frank for firing you, so I know you're a fighter. And two of your seven estates are in Malibu.
I'm motivated, Jamie. I'm a fighter. And I share your love of oceanfront real estate.
In short, my dear, we are two peas in a pod.
I won't deny that there's a complication or two. Yes, I'm married at the moment. But as you've demonstrated by dumping Frank and taking up with your driver, the heart wants what the heart wants.
Speaking of the driver, I suggest you slow down, take a deep breath and open your eyes.
Come on, Jamie. He's a classic rebound guy.
How do I know this?
Because he's everything your estranged husband is not, and that's a great way to poke Frank in both eyes with a hot stick. But these flings usually flame out after a few months. You're going to look in the mirror one morning, slap yourself in the face and scream: