Reader's Edyn: Blitz: Dating Mr. Darcy (Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series #1) by Kate O'Keeffe + GIVEAWAY

**Dating Mr. Darcy by Kate O’Keeffe**

Good Morning, Everyone! So thrilled to see you all today! Today we have another new author to share with you all. Well, new to me, at least. I just love discovering new authors and their work! Please allow me to feature on the blog Kate O’Keeffe and her latest release, DATING MR. DARCY … Plus, a GIVEAWAY!

**KATE O’KEEFFE**

**BIO**

Kate O'Keeffe is a bestselling author of fun, feel-good romantic comedies. She lives and loves in beautiful Hawke's Bay, New Zealand with her family, two scruffy dogs, and a cat who thinks he's a scruffy dog too. He's not: he's a cat. When she's not penning her latest story, Kate can be found hiking up hills (slowly), traveling to different countries, and eating chocolate. A lot of it.

To find out more about Ms. O’Keeffe, please visit:

**DATING MR. DARCY**

Publication date: August 25^th, 2020

Series: Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series #1

Genres: Adult, Romance, Contemporary

**BLURB**

Is it a truth universally acknowledged, that a girl must compete on reality TV to win a modern-day Mr. Darcy’s heart?

Clothing designer Emma Brady is having serious doubts about how far she’ll go to promote her new activewear line. Sure, being on a reality show would be great for business, but is putting up with Mr. Darcy-wannabe Sebastian Huntington-Ross really worth it?

Sebastian is straight out of an Austen novel. But it’s hard to focus on his chiseled jaw, broad shoulders and wickedly sexy accent when all Emma can see is his pride, arrogance, and smug demeanor.

But Sebastian has a secret reason for being on the show, and when Emma figures out what it is, her heart warms to him—without her permission.

Will Emma hold fast and keep the aristocratic Sebastian at arm’s length? Or will she put her reservations aside when the lines between reality and “reality show” start to blur?

**EXCERPT**

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 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 nowehere.

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.

“Emma,” Johnathan says, snapping my attention away from Kennedy. “We would love to hear your performance. Please, take to the stage.”

I wave my hand in the air. “Oh, I’m going to sit this one out, if it’s all the same to you. But thanks for asking.”

His eyes shift to a crew member and back to me. “All the contestants need to perform, I’m afraid.”

“As much as I may want to perform—and believe me I do so, so much—I’m afraid I’m no singer. I told Sebastian that already and he seemed cool with it. Believe me, I’m doing all of you a big favor here.”

“She doesn’t want to have to follow my performance. Do you, Emma?” Hayley says with the fakest sweet smile ever.

“I can well understand that,” Johnathan replies, “but the rules are the rules. Aren’t they, Mrs. Watson?” He’s looking for back-up now.

Mrs. Watson rises to her feet and glares at me. “You. Stage. Now.” Gone is the firm but polite language. It seems she’s going for straightforward orders now.

I chew on my lip as I look around the room. “Do I have to?” I ask, and yes, I know I sound like a whiny kid being made to eat her broccoli.

“You do,” Mrs. Watson replies.

I let out a defeated sigh. “Okay.” I make my way over to the stage like I’m walking the line. I don’t want to perform, and I haven’t practiced anything either.

I scramble around in my brain, searching desperately for a song in my range. Which is basically about four notes, all of them flat, if my car singing skills are anything to go by.

“Miss Emma? We’re waiting,” Mrs. Watson says tersely.

All eyes are on me. Johnathan is watching me warily, Sebastian is looking somewhere between concerned and amused, and there’s no way I’m going to look in Hayley’s or Camille’s direction right now.

I’ve got to think of something, stat!

When I don’t do anything, Mrs. Watson barks, “Sing!”

Out of pure shock, I open my mouth and begin to sing the first song that comes to mind. It was playing in the car as I was driven here what feels like a lifetime ago, even though I think it was only a matter of days. Days? Really?

Lil Nas X’s voice is in my head, and I sing along with it. I’m taking my horse down to an old road, and it takes all my willpower not to bob on the spot as though I’m on that horse myself. When I get to the Billy Ray Cyrus part, I notice a few of the contestants go from controlling their mirth to openly sniggering. It puts me off my game. Not that I had much of a game in the first place.

I fudge some of the words and replace others with the word “horse,” which seems appropriate, given that it’s a song about riding one. Or is it a metaphor? All I know is this is about a gazillion miles from being my finest hour, and I wish more than anything it was over.

When I finally get to the end of the song, I stop abruptly, clamp my mouth shut, and wait for the inevitable laughter to roll around the room. I’m not disappointed. Camille is doubled over, shaking with laughter, Hayley has tears rolling down her cheeks, and even Phoebe and Kennedy are snickering, although I can tell they’re working hard to hold it in.

I glance at Sebastian. His face is alight with amusement, but his eyes are surprisingly soft. “Nice work,” he mouths, and I shoot him my most withering look, which is a little hard to muster when you’re up to your neck in a lake of humiliation, your cheeks hot enough to scramble eggs.

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