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“Oh my god, Jean Paul Pierre Luc, you are everything James described and more.” TJ’s voice carries out into the hallway. I don’t know anyone named Jean Paul Pierre Luc. I hesitate a beat, listening outside the door like a proper wanker. “I like this one, but maybe show me one of yours?”
“With pleasure,” a male voice with a horrible fake French accent says.
“Ooh, it’s so big. I don’t know if it will fit.” TJ sounds breathless.
“Monsieur, I assure you, it will fit,” Frenchie says in a seductive tone.
What the fuck is going on in there?TJ and I have a strong relationship built on a solid foundation, but even the best marriages can have a niggling of doubt when someone unexpected is in your home speaking in hushed tones about…big things.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath right before I knock the door open so fiercely it crashes into the wall. TJ and the French dude scream, while a man with a camera swivels toward me, a guy is holding a boom mic overhead, and another is fiddling with the bright lights set up behind the camera guy. I hold my hand up to shield the blinding light and blink a couple times.Am I on a bad porno set?
“What the fuck is happenin’ in here?” I bite out, anger turning to confusion. “Who is this sod and why is this feckin’ eejit filming?”
TJ holds his hands over his heart. “Jesus, babe, I love when you go all Irish brawny-man on me, but cupcakes and sprinkles, you scared the ever-living bananas out of me! Connor, this is Jean Paul Pierre Luc, designer extraordinaire from the Jean Paul Pierre Luc Collection and that’s Cal, Sam, Tina, and Brody fromNashville Next. Remember, I said they’d be filming?”
I blink a few more times and scrape my hand through my hair, trying to collect myself. Chagrined, I wave to the camera crew and reach out a hand to the French guy who looks like a washed-up eighties hair-band member trying out for Cirque du Soleil. His sequined black-and-white striped blazer is paired with red, tight leather snakeskin pants and lace-up silver sequined combat boots. A single red silk scarf is knotted around his neck, and he’s wearing a hot-pink low-cut tank underneath the blazer. His eye makeup is garish, but somehow completes the look. He’s holding a pink bedazzled drill in one hand and a piece of fabric in the other.
“Sorry if I scared ye. I wasn’ expectin’ anyone to be here. Connor Ryan, TJ’s husband,” I add, then take a step back.
“Eyes heard zo much about you. Za pleasure is mine, monsieur.”
My husband is smiling brilliantly, hanging on every mispronounced syllable of that horrible accent like an eager puppy waiting for a table scrap. Can’t he see right through this guy’s phony act?
“Right. Um, TJ, can I have a word with ye in the kitchen?”
“Oh, sure. Give me a minute, Jean Paul Pierre Luc?”
“Ez no prue-blem. I’ll measure what we de-scuzie,oui?”
“Oui!” TJ claps his hands and it takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes.
TJ follows me to the kitchen and when we’re safely out of Frenchie’s earshot, I round on him. “TJ, what the hell is going on? Who is that guy and why is he drilling holes in our guest room?”
He waves his hands in my face. “Shh, he’ll hear you. That magnifique extraordinaire is Jean Paul Pierre Luc. He is the hottest designer in Nashville right now.”
“Thatguy?” I chuff. “You’ve got to be joking. Is this something for work?”
“No, silly, he’s drawing up plans to transform our guest room into a Las Vegas baby oasis.”
It only takes a heartbeat before I see red. “A babywhat?”
TJ chews his thumbnail. “I mean, the other option was Moroccan camel theme. He had this idea of a camel head spitting water into a fountain. It was a little much, you know? I thought Vegas Oasis had thatje ne sais quoiappeal to it, don’t you think?”
A loud banging comes from the guest room, followed by cursing.
“Jean Paul Pierre Luc, everything okay?” TJ calls out.
“No prue-blem! Zee jeest using my hammer! No prue-blem!” Frenchy shouts. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Brody, Sam, Tina, and Cal filming us.
“Do ye mind givin’ us a moment?”
One of them looks to TJ for confirmation, and I clench my jaw.
“Please, Cal?” TJ clasps his hands in front of him. The men lower their equipment and slink away down the hall. I turn toward TJ and he must see the steam shooting out of my ears because he deflates against the counter. “I can explain.”
I cross my arms. “What the hell are ye doin’? We haven’t even discussed moving forward with this and ye already have that gobshite designer in here? I don’t want to even know how much he’s goin’ to cost. And why are those guys in our home filmin’ us? What happened to privacy? I never said yes to this. It’s been three days since we last talked about the whole baby thing.Threedays!” My voice raises and I remind myself yet again to take a deep, calming breath. “I said I needed time. Ye promised me we were goin’ to take this slow.”
“Okay, I understand where you’re coming from, butNashville Nextneeds to film and I signed a contract that they would document our journey. They don’t want footage of me doing everyday stuff. And Jean Paul Pierre Luc is doing this as a favor to me because I’ve referred several clients to him. Although truth be told, I think the only reason he took this project on is because he wanted to be onNashville Next.”
