Dreams come true in this hilarious, feel-good fairy tale about life, love, and dating literature’s most eligible bachelor! After a string of disastrous dates, Emily Albright decides she’s had it with modern-day love and would much rather curl up with Pride and Prejudice and spend her time with Mr. Darcy, the dashing, honorable, and passionate hero of Jane Austen’s classic. So when her best friend suggests a wild week of margaritas and men in Mexico with the girls, Emily abruptly flees to England on a guided tour of Jane Austen country instead. Far from inspiring romance, the company aboard the bus consists of a gaggle of little old ladies and one single man, Spike Hargreaves, a foul-tempered journalist writing an article on why the fictional Mr. Darcy has earned the title of Man Most Women Would Love to Date. The last thing Emily expects to find on her excursion is a broodingly handsome man striding across a field, his damp shirt clinging to his chest. But that’s exactly what happens when she comes face-to-face with none other than Mr. Darcy himself. Suddenly, every woman’s fantasy becomes one woman’s reality. . . . Praise for Me and Mr. Darcy : “…Unexpectedly charming. . . Me and Mr. Darcy offers a Pride and Prejudice - appropriate surprise. . . it turns out to be one of the wittier of this summer's offerings, not to mention sharp and sad in its observations about what spinsterhood, identity and aging look like for women in 2007.” — Salon “[ Me and Mr. Darcy ] takes the reader on an extended daydream with an appropriately pleasant ending. “ — The Indianapolis Star “Alexandra Potter’s clever comedy, an affectionate celebration of books and readers — and bookstores — might lead you to start browsing those travel websites yourself.” — The Times- Picayune “Pure candy for the imagination. . . Ms. Potter has worked literary magic with the creation of Me and Mr. Darcy .” — CoffeeTimeRomance.com “…Refreshing…” — Publishers Weekly Alexandra Potter  was born in Yorkshire, England. Having lived in Los Angeles, Sydney, and London after university, she finally decided to settle where the sun is and now lives full-time in California. She has worked as a features editor and subeditor for women’s magazines in the United Kingdom, and currently writes full-time. Chapter 1 It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single girl in possession of her right mind must be in want of a decent man. There’s just one problem . . . “So we had a drink each and shared a pizza, but you asked for two extra toppings on your half, which means you owe . . . Hang on a minute, I’ve got a calculator on my BlackBerry . . .” Sitting in a little Italian restaurant on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, I stare across the checked tablecloth and watch, dumbfounded, as my date pulls out his CrackBerry and proceeds to cheerfully divvy up the bill. . . . where on earth do you find a decent man these days? I’m having dinner with John, a thirty-something architect I met briefly at a friend’s birthday party last weekend. He seemed nice enough when he asked for my number—nice enough to share a pizza with on a Tuesday evening after work, anyway—but now, watching him hunched over the table, number-crunching, I’m fast realizing I’ve made a mistake. “. . . an extra seven dollars and seventy-five cents, and that includes tax and tip,” he declares triumphantly, and shows me the screen to prove it. A very big mistake. 0 To be honest, I blame Mr. Darcy. I was just twelve years old when I first read Pride and Prejudice and I fell for him right from the start. Forget fresh-faced Joey from New Kids on the Block or leather-clad Michael Hutchence from INXS—whose posters I had tacked to my wall—Mr. Darcy was my first love. Devastatingly handsome, mysterious, smoldering, and a total romantic, he set the bar for all my future boyfriends. Snuggled under the bedcovers with my flashlight, I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could find a man like him. But now I have grown up. And here I am, still looking. Digging out a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket, I pass it to John. “Have you got the seventy-five cents?” he prompts, his hand still outstretched. You have got to be kidding. Except he’s not. “Oh . . . um . . . sure,” I mutter, and begin rooting around in my change purse. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not Renée Zellweger. I don’t need a man to complete me. I have a career, I pay my own rent, I have a set of power tools and I know how to use them. And as for the other thing, well, that’s what battery-operated toys were invented for. I hand John the seventy-five cents. Then watch in disbelief as he proceeds to count it. Still, that doesn’t stop me hankering after a bit of that good old-fashioned romance I’m always reading about in books. Or daydreaming about meeting someone who could sweep me off my Uggs and set my pulse racing. A dark, handsome, faithful man, with impeccable manners, brooding good-looks, witty conversation, and one of those big,