Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,4

them up to my thighs, my dress bunched up under my chin. Ever bunched up a sequin dress under your chin? Not comfortable.

As the car turns corners, my task becomes increasingly complex. Just when I scoop my butt up off the seat to pull the leggings up, the car turns, and I go crashing into the door. Luckily it’s firmly shut or I’d be splattered across the road somewhere.

By the time I’m halfway done, I’m hot and sweaty and panting like I’ve gone three rounds in the ring with Muhammad Ali. Or some other boxer from this century. (Fighting’s so not my thing).

My leggings finally in place, I heave a sigh of relief. Time for my Timothy top. I pull my sequined dress over my head, only for it to get snagged on my hair.

I tug at the dress. It pulls at my hair but it holds tight. I tug again. This thing is not budging.

The car begins to slow. I peer out the smoky glass window and see a large house at the end of the long drive. It looks like a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Uh-oh.

Panic begins to set in. I need to get this darn dress off and pull on my T-shirt over my strapless bra, and I need to do it now.

As the car slows to a stop, I yank on the dress, hard, only to cry out in pain as my hair refuses to untangle itself from the many sequins.

I hear a car door thud closed and know the driver is about to walk around to open my door.

No! We can’t be here already!

Think, Emma, think!

In just my leggings and strapless bra, my dress acting as some sort of weird hair extension, I’m not only going to be the laughing stock of the nation, but I’m sure the Mr. Darcy wannabe will send me home before he can say “that one was totally cray cray.” Penny’s and my dream will amount to nothing.

With probably less than about three seconds to go before the driver reaches my door, I ditch the near-impossible hair issue and focus on getting my top on. I grab it out of my clutch and loop one leg through, then the next. With a strength that would impress Wonder Woman herself, I yank the top up over my thighs, and begin to loop an arm through one side. So far, so good. All I’ve got to do now is loop the other arm through and ...

The next thing I know, the wall I’m leaning up against gives way and I fall backwards out of the privacy of the limo and land with a thud on my butt.

Ooof.

As my butt meets the hard, unforgiving ground, the wind is instantly sucked out of me and the pain sears. Trying to regain my balance, my legs flail in the air like I’m some kind of insect that can’t get itself back up. At least twelve different cuss words erupt from my mouth. Cuss words my mother would blush to hear me say.

Everything goes quiet around me.

Smooth, Emma. Real smooth.

“Well, that was quite an entrance,” a voice says.

I blink. Everything around me is bright white. I raise my hand to shelter my eyes from the blinding lights and see a silhouetted figure leaning over me. I lift my head from the ground and do a quick tally. Legs still look like, well, legs, both nestled snugly in my Timothy leggings. Thank goodness. My body is mostly covered, but for the straps of my top, which I quickly rectify by snapping them into place. Other than a throbbing pain in my butt, I’m all in one piece. Physically, at least.

“You are very original,” the voice continues. “Do you need help getting up or is this all part of the show?” Is that an English accent I hear, or has that Mrs. Battle-axe Watson somehow got into my brain?

I peer up at the figure. “That’d be great. Thanks.” I reach out and take his outstretched hands. “Are they filming right now?”

“I believe they are, yes.”

Dammit! So not the entrance I was going for.

“Do you think the Mr. Darcy guy saw?” I ask him in a low voice. I’m still blinded by those darn lights. “I mean, this is hardly much of a good first impression. Am I right?”

“I’m certain you have made an impression,” he replies stiffly. “Whether or not it’s a good one remains to be seen. May I help you with your, erm, dress?”

My hand

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