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too.ā€ I recently bought out my co-owner, Eliza. She wanted the funds to purchase a basketball team, so we did a deal, and now Iā€™m the sole owner. ā€œSamantha secured me six dates in a year. Six measly dates, and none of them resulted in a second or third. I am one hundred percent undatable.ā€

ā€œThatā€™s crazy. What kind of man is intimidated by a successful woman?ā€

ā€œLet me share a few gems.ā€ I count off on my fingers. ā€œOne, a well-known hedge fund owner said thanks but no thanks to a second date because he prefers to have the biggest wallet in the room. Two, a land developer said he had no interest in seeing me again as long as my title remained CEO. Three, a personal injury attorney, who has a gazillion dollars because he sues everyone and wins, said one date with me was enough to remind him he wants to wear the pants in his house. And this after I wore a skirt on our date too. My cute red pencil skirt with white polka dots. It was fashionable and adorable.ā€

Her nose crinkles. ā€œAnd he didnā€™t deserve it. Any man meeting you while youā€™re wearing that should thank the goddesses of luck for even giving him a shot at a brilliant, bold babe.ā€

ā€œThree Bs? Whoa.ā€

She gives an approving nod. ā€œYouā€™re B cubed, and some man someday will recognize your exponential awesomeness. Then you can bestow upon him your red-and-white polka dots and heā€™ll fall to his knees in gratitude.ā€

I crack up at the image she paints. But soon my laughter fades and my shoulders slump again. ā€œMaybe someday.ā€

Iā€™m back to latent frustration, topped with a dollop of where-did-I-go-wrong. Samanthaā€™s note was like a shot of un-confidence. ā€œAnd look, I know this is a mega first world problem. Donā€™t cry for me, Argentina, and all that. But it seems men donā€™t want to date a woman who makes more than they do, or who is used to ordering men around. I have fifty-three guys on my active roster, but sheesh, itā€™s not like Iā€™m a dominatrix.ā€ I screw up the corner of my lips in a rueful half smile. ā€œAt least, I donā€™t think so. You probably need to have sex to be a dominatrix. But even so, Iā€™m pretty sure Iā€™m not.ā€

ā€œNothing wrong with it if you are,ā€ Scarlett says. ā€œBut I donā€™t think youā€™re one either.ā€

ā€œExactly. Iā€™m a virgin.ā€ Itā€™s not a secret with Scarlett. This isnā€™t my woe-is-my-lonely-hymen speech. My friend knows me, knows why Iā€™ve waited. My virginity isnā€™t an albatross, simply a choice that I made. ā€œBut I wasnā€™t using a matchmaker to ditch my V card. I was using one because I wanted some companionship. But alas, Iā€™ll be heading to the West Coast virginity intact, and thatā€™s fine.ā€

ā€œOf course itā€™s fine. Youā€™ll be ready when youā€™re ready.ā€

Since it seems to be my confessional hour, I sweep my hand out to indicate the scarves in the bedroom and the shoes beyond. ā€œSo thatā€™s why I have all this stuff. I went a little shopping crazy in the last year. Every time I was dateless, every time a date flopped, every time Samantha emailed to say she was ā€˜still working on it,ā€™ I bought shoes. Or scarves. Or sweaters.ā€ I dip my head, frowning. ā€œIā€™m the worst.ā€

Scarlett wraps her arms around me. ā€œYouā€™re not the worst. But I think youā€™re particularly stressed out today over everything going onā€”the move, your dadā€™s legacy, and your expensive, elite matchmaker being a useless twit.ā€

Sheā€™s right. Moving is stressful in itself, but add in my belief that this was my dadā€™s dying wish and my dating woes, and Iā€™m extra twisted and tangled up.

I donā€™t expect anyone to feel sorry for me. Iā€™m an heiress after all. I have wealth and material riches, and Iā€™m very grateful for that. But I want to do right by my dad.

I want to do right by the fans.

And someday, yes, I want what my parents hadā€”love, happiness, respect, partnership.

The trouble is, all those desires are slamming together like carnival bumper cars.

And that was before Samanthaā€™s smackdown made me a woman on edge.

Iā€™m uprooting my life from Las Vegas. Not only do I feel itā€™s what my father would have wanted, itā€™s what I want. My fatherā€™s biggest regret was moving the team away from his hometown. He missed the San Francisco fans, and he wanted his wifeā€”my momā€”to be happy. Her entire family is from the Bay Area, so he vowed to return the team there so she could be near her brother and sisters again.

Then, he fell ill so Iā€™m finishing the job for him. The job of bringing the Hawks home. After he died, I wasnā€™t sure if I was ready to move it back, so I kept the team in Vegas. But when I saw my mom at my brotherā€™s engagement party, everything clicked. And I knew it was time to get out the U-Haul.

I worked my ass off campaigning to move the team, to win approval from the NFL and the city. Plus, it makes business sense. Attendance has been dipping here because Vegas is the land of endless entertaining distractions.

I pulled it off, and now Iā€™m bringing the Hawks to a city where the team is both hated and loved.

But at least I can see my mother, sister, and brother more regularly.

That is, when Iā€™m not working. I have a ton of events already lined up in San Francisco, back-to-back meetings with the city regarding tax breaks, appointments with legal counsel over business operations, and interviews with a slew of candidates for the position of general manager.

Can you say busy?

I want to do my father proud. When he died, he split his businesses down the middle, leaving them to his three kidsā€”Eric runs the private equity firm, Brooke oversees the real estate holdings, and Iā€™ve got the team.

I need to go to San Francisco ready to tackle the job and thatā€™s all. I donā€™t need sixty-seven

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