Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,3
do tequila slammers and hit the clubs.”
“Do you want to do tequila slammers and hit the clubs?”
“Well, no,” I admit. “We did more than enough of that together in college.”
“Those were the days,” she replies with a sigh. “Meeting you was the only good thing to come out of that boring business studies course we did.”
“You quit it to go to design school after about five minutes, Penn.”
“My point exactly.”
“Well, my point is that if this guy is anything like Mr. Darcy, he’ll be all formal and rude and boring.”
She sucks in air. “How dare you,” she mocks. “Never say never, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, in this case you’re wrong. Never means never.”
“Okay, okay. Gorgeous fictional characters aside, all you’ve got to do is make sure you’re not sent home in the first three rounds. That way you can promote Timothy and show the American people that you’re worth watching.”
I let out a sigh. “No pressure, then.”
“I know everyone will love you just as much as I do.”
“How am I going to achieve that?”
“Just be yourself.”
Huh. The most useful advice given ever.
“Look, Penn. I’ll try to stay for two rounds, then I’ll break some rule or something so I get sent home.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Come on, Em. It’s one more week in TV time. It’s probably a couple of days at most for you in real time.”
“Are you Emma Brady?” a voice says behind me.
I look up to see a woman about my age, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, her oversized, dark-rimmed glasses balanced on her small nose. “Hold on a sec, Penn,” I say into the phone. “Yup, I’m Emma Brady.”
The girl smiles. “Cool. I’m Suzie. Mrs. Watson sent me. You’ll, ah, need to pass me your phone.” She holds her hand out, palm up.
I feel like a prisoner who’s wasted their one final call on discussing how I’m not going to fall for a Mr. Darcy imposter and keep my clothes on during parties. “Can I at least say goodbye?”
“Make it quick.”
“Penn? I gotta go,” I say into the phone.
“Remember everything,” she replies sternly. “Ev-er-y-thing.”
Pressure much?
“I’ll do my best.”
“What you’re doing could lead to big things for us. I love you, Em.” I can hear the crack in her voice.
“I love you, too, Penn. It’ll all be okay.”
“This show is going to change things for us. I just know it,” she says with a sniff. “Your dad would have been so proud of you, Em.”
Something twists painfully inside at the thought of my dad. Although I’m not exactly sure he’d be proud of me going on a reality show to promote our new label, I know he’d support me in whatever decisions I made. Running his own business was a dream he never managed during his lifetime. Now, through hard work and sacrifice, I’ve got a real shot at it.
“Look after Frank, okay?” I say, suddenly fiercely missing my cat.
I glance back at Suzie. Her hand is outstretched, and she’s got a mildly panicked look on her face. I say goodbye to Penny, turn my phone off, and reluctantly hand it over.
“Frank?” she questions.
“My cat.” I collect my clutch from the counter and ready myself to leave. I glance at the handkerchief. There’s no way I’m giving a grown man that thing, I don’t care how scary Mrs. Watson is. This is twenty-first century America. People don’t give each other handkerchiefs anymore. It’s just weird.
I pick it up and discreetly drop it to the floor, where I kick it under the table.
Suzie doesn’t seem to notice as she connects a pack inside the back of my dress and a mic discreetly tucked inside the lapel of my top.
This has all begins to feel very real.
Suzie presses her finger to her ear and then says, “It’s time.”
On sky-high heels, I follow her unsteadily out of the room. As I slip into the back of the long, black, glossy limo parked up at the curb, I know this could be the making of Timothy.
Or the undoing of Emma Brady.
Chapter 2
How on this sweet Earth did I get myself into this position?
I’m not talking metaphorically or spiritually or anything like that here, you understand.
Oh, no. I’m being much more literal.
Right now, I’m all alone in the back of the limo, whizzing through the outskirts of Houston on my way to some ranch out in banjo territory. I’ve managed to remove my mic, which was a feat all its own, and now I’m wrangling with my Timothy leggings. With an almighty effort, I pull