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Prologue

VICKY

Jane Austen Fan Club

PO BOX

January 1st

Dear Jane,

For the lasthundred years or so, your delightful words have etched their way into every young woman’s buoyant heart hoping for a bit of romance in her life. Your books have given us hope. They’ve made us dream, but after spending years of my life looking for my Mr. Darcy, I’ve come to realize you were a romantic, just like the rest of us, and the path ahead isn’t as fluffy as you made it out to be. For all I know, Mr. Darcy may always remain a beautiful dream (preferably one with lots of sex in it because I’m not getting very much of that lately.) However, I will never give up dreaming because, even if Mr. Darcy doesn’t exist, maybe some day, Mr. Darcy’s poorer and less sexy brother will trudge along. I’m definitely game for givinghima try.

Lots of love,

Vicky Sullivan

Two months later

Jane Austen Fan Club

PO Box

March 12th

Dear Jane,

I think I’ve foundhim—my own Mr. Darcy. Actually, I’m quite sure of it. While we haven’t met at some uptight ball, like Elizabeth, Starbucks isn’t so bad a place either. He spilled hot coffee on me (I’m sporting a small scar, but who am I to complain when we’re talking about true love here) and then he asked me to have a cup of coffee with him the next day. So far, we’ve only gone on two dates, and no se*…uhm, lovemaking, but my heart’s already confident. He’s the one. We might not be Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in the sense that we don’t talk much, but in the silence surrounding us, we say everything.

Lots of love,

Vicky Sullivan

1

VICKY

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter under my breath as soon as the bus pulls into a potholed road. Looking out of the window, the only thing I can make out is a vast space of trees and water, and yet more water. It feels as if I’m part of another world even though that is impossible. We are as deep in North Carolina as one can get.

Throughout our drive, I spied a few shops, the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, and even caught a glimpse of the Fort Raleigh National Historic Site. It sure feels like we’re far away from civilization, but the driver keeps assuring me we’re only “a stone’s throw” away from the buzzing nightlife.

I should have clarified his interpretation of the term “buzzing nightlife.”

Roanoke Island is beautiful. I’ve read tourists are all over this place, but right now it feels more like a death sentence than a blissful oasis. On top of the seclusion, the clouds are as dark and ominous as the feelings inside me and the dread of losing myself.

Okay. I’m not going to panic. I refuse to. I’m going to stay on this tiny island for only six weeks. Six weeks.

Forty-two days.

1001 hours.

It should be as easy as pie. Except, I have the feeling it won’t.

It’s going to be a fucking disaster, that’s what it is.

“What are you in here for?” A voice disrupts my thoughts.

I turn my head.