Main Bonus #76: Wednesday Night News - Part One (Patreon)

IMPORTANT: Please do not screenshot and post any part of this bonus scene to other sites or share with non-patrons. All of the Patreon content is exclusive to Patreon and for current patron's eyes only.  Thank you!! xoxo Krista & Becca

RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

MUSIC: We listened to "What Good Is Love" by The Scarlet Opera while writing this bonus.  

TODAY IS the day. I’m delivering important news to my family—so important that it has my stomach twisted into a giant pretzel. There will be no thunderclouds and rainstorms with the news. It’s good news. Terribly good, amazing news. But that is from Thatcher’s and my perspective. If I try to place myself in my younger siblings’ shoes, I can’t quantify their reactions.

I’m not so sure how they’ll take it.

How Audrey will take it.

Being the oldest means doing things first in the family. First serious relationship. First engagement. First marriage. It’s a bit like trial by fire to see how it affects my tempestuous but loving family, and it’s no ordinary day of the week.

Wednesday nights are for the lions.

I smile as Thatcher slows our baby blue Land Rover in the circular driveaway. We park beside the regal fountain.

No other cars in sight. But that doesn’t mean much. My parents are likely parked in the garage, and my brothers will often have their bodyguards drive them from New York to Philadelphia, so they’d be dropped off at the mansion.

I uncross my legs and unbuckle, and a squeaky noise fills the silence with my every tiny movement. Thatcher’s vigilant gaze shifts to me like I might be under attack. Until he sees it’s a plastic raincoat problem and not a bomb.

I love how his lips tic upward.

I love how light touches his normally grave eyes.

“I amuse you,” I point out.

He laughs like that’s not even the half of it. “You do many things to me, Jane.”

I smile brighter. Flush hot on my cheeks, and I try to pry the stuck raincoat off the leather seat. There we go. I intake a readying breath.

My outfit tonight is metaphorical. A long pink raincoat, matching bucket hat, and a pastel yellow jumpsuit would be fashionably perfect during a thunderstorm.

I plan to whip off my coat, fling off my hat, and declare to my family that only sunny times are ahead. I pause suddenly. Picturing it this morning, it felt dramatic and perfect.

Right now, it seems utterly absurd.

My hand is frozen on the car handle. “Merde,” I curse. “Thatcher, I think this is too much.”

His black flannel is rolled to his strong forearms, and he has a radio hooked in his waistband, even if he is off-duty. It’s just in case. I’m almost positive a gun is holstered at his hip, too. Just in case.

My husband is not at all dressed up for the theatrics I have prepared, and I honestly wouldn’t want it any other way. He is entirely himself.

There is fondness in his eyes when he sweeps the length of me and my raincoat. Then his comforting gaze reaches my face, and I sense him skimming my freckles, my pink lips, my lashes, and lastly, my eyes.

How I can love a man so terribly in such silent seconds—I hope I never know so I can keep searching for the answer with him.

“It’s Wednesday Night Dinner, honey,” he says huskily, “I don’t think there’s a thing as too much.”

“Don’t say that too loud. Eliot might hear and try to challenge you.” I climb out of the car, and the plastic-rubbing squeaks continue as I shift every which way.

Coming around to my side, Thatcher sees me fully and appraises me head to toe.

My cheeks heat at the scorch of his gaze. “And?” I ask, staring up at him as he nears.

“You’re asking the wrong man.”

“I’m asking my husband,” I note. “Fashion might not be your forte, but I trust your instincts.”

He puts a hand to my head. “My instinct is to strip you naked and fuck you in the backseat.”

I smother an overwhelming smile. “So you’re saying the raincoat should be removed?”

“By my hands.”

“Only by your hands,” I agree, clutching his waist as he shifts a piece of my wavy brown hair behind my ear. His fingers brush the heat of my cheek. “But later.”

His lips nearly tic up again. “Later.” He leans down and kisses me, just to also whisper, “You look beautiful in everything, in everyway, Jane.”

“Likewise, Mr. Moretti.”

He slips an affectionate, protective arm over my shoulder, and I touch his loving hand that holds me.

I have a silly grin on my face as we walk towards the front door. It’s hard to believe that I can be married and still feel this giddiness inside me. It almost, almost makes me forget about my pretzel stomach.

“What in the…?” Thatcher stops short of the stoop at the grand front door.

Fake cobwebs obstruct the entire entrance to the house. It’d take a pair of hedge clippers to reach the door.

“Halloween was last month,” I say loudly, hoping someone from the security-camera doorbell can hear.

Sure enough, a voice booms through the speaker. “Who says cobwebs are reserved solely for All Hallow’s Eve?” Eliot asks.

“Says your dear oldest sister who is trying to get inside.”

Thatcher watches me poke at the taut cobwebs, and I almost see him smile. Just another amusing night at the Cobalt Estate.

“To the dear oldest sister who’s trying to get inside,” Eliot says over the speaker. “Need I remind you, there is a back entrance.”

“Oh no, I’m not falling for that,” I say. “You bobby-trapped it.”

“Do you mistake me for a child? I’m at the age of twenty. I wouldn’t dare.” The mock hurt is hardly believable.

I look to my husband. “Do you think we could run through it?” Thatcher is six-seven and built enough that he could bulldoze through the cobwebs like a linebacker.

He assesses the obstruction. “The door isn’t even visible.” He narrows his eyes like there’s another solution, and he slips a hand in his back pocket. I watch him pull out a tactical knife and open the blade. 

Before he starts hacksawing the webs, another voice comes over the speaker.

“The back door is safe,” Beckett says.

“You must enjoy ruining all the fun and hard work of your favorite brothers,” Eliot says pointedly to him.

“Beckett Joyce the Killjoy,” Tom chimes in.

“Favorite brothers when?” Beckett teases back.

Eliot mock winces. “Did you hear that, dear oldest sister?”

I can’t stop smiling. “I did, in fact, hear you’re not the favorites.”

He scoffs even louder.

I imagine Beckett shares a similar smile before he says, “It’s not fun for everyone to watch our sister fight her way to the front door.”

“Yeah,” Ben pipes in. “This isn’t Temple of Doom.”

“It could be,” Tom and Eliot say in unison, and they pause before laughing together.

Thatcher glares at the door like he’s ready to toss Tom and Eliot into the snow. Which is only lightly layering the ground. I suspect, it’d be more like flinging them onto the hard earth.

I grab his flannel sleeve and lead him towards the back yard. “They’re harmless,” I remind him.

“They’re trouble.” I see the slight worry in his eyes. He’s protective of them, too. They push too far, and the older they get, the more trouble they find and the more trouble finds them.

“It’s harmless trouble,” I whisper.

“Until it isn’t,” he says, his voice low.

I know. “They just like to test boundaries.”

“I get brothers. The teasing and the camaraderie, but they’re testing you consistently. Like fucking clockwork. I could pencil this in alongside each time you visit.”

“Because they don’t see me as often as the others. It’s like a fresh new toy showing up on their doorstep. We could be forty, and I think they’d still pull these tricks.” I smile a little at the faraway future. I just hope we’re all this close forever.

He sees, but he’s wrestling with protecting me, protecting them, protecting and loving us all. He’s not only the first Cobalt by marriage, but being a bodyguard is engrained so deeply within Thatcher. When he notices even the slightest bit of hurt, his instinct is to become a shield. And now that he’s a part of the family, he’s allowed to intervene in ways he couldn’t as security.  

“They know I don’t care,” I add. “I’ll love them regardless of their pranks and teasing.”

Thatcher types the keycode to the back gate and holds it open for me. “I love your brothers too,” he says. “But the second they upset you, I’m going to throw them in the snow.”

I smile hard, already having pictured just that. “Fair.”

Entering the backyard, we trek across the snowy grass and around the pool. Steam hovers above the heated water, and Thatcher slides the glass doors open. He lets me go inside first.

A fire roars in the spacious living room, and I skirt away from the blazing heat. Do not shed the raincoat. The moment will come in due time.

Tonight isn’t just any Wednesday Night Dinner.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, which means that everyone is present today.

So when we slip into the warm dining room, I’m unsurprised to see all my brothers already in attendance.

Audrey and my parents are the only ones missing.

“You made it!” Eliot claps loudly, jumping off the long, ornate dining table. Lavish Baroque silverware clatter behind him. A pipe rests against his lips, and he’s dressed in a black tailcoat with a loose-fitted white dress shirt beneath. Looking more Romeo than Bridgerton.  

“By the skin of my teeth,” I say dramatically, and Eliot comes in for a hug. Only, he extends his long arm out to include Thatcher, too.

“No thanks to me,” Eliot admits, squeezing us together in a three-person hug.

Thatcher softens considerably, or as considerably as he can—which on the surface appears faint. But there is subtle light behind his eyes. I’d say he goes from a brick wall to a sponge cake. It is quite difficult to stay mad at Eliot.

At the head of the table, Charlie ignores the interaction, his nose in East of Eden by Steinbeck. He leans back on the legs of Dad’s chair, a true feat for how heavy the ornate wood is.

Ben occupies his usual seat and texts on his phone. He looks up. “Hi, Jane. Thatcher.” He smiles at us in greeting.

Thatcher nods back in hello.

“Pippy,” I smile, but it veers into a wince at the sight of the welt on his cheek. “Hockey?”

“The one and only.” He pops the cap of his water bottle. “It looks worse than it feels.”

“You already had a concussion this season,” I mention.

He takes a sip, then goes back to his phone. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Tell Mom that next time she brings it up, too.”

I arch a brow. “Or perhaps, I’ll side with her.”

Tom gapes. “Over us? You’d never.” He very much knows I would, given the right circumstance. He hugs me with a looser grip than Eliot, but he drums the top of my head afterward. “I’m digging the hat, Jane Eleanor.” His grin is effervescent as he slips over to the bar cart.

Thatcher and Ben have a short, quiet chat, and it almost reminds me of the time where Thatcher and I lived with Ben, Audrey, and my parents. Back when the townhouse burned down.

I smile softly. When Thatcher takes a short phone call near the door and leaves Ben’s side—things take a turn.

“Just quit.” Charlie speaks directly to our youngest brother.

Ben flashes an annoyed look to him. “I’m not quitting hockey.”

“Because you love it so much,” Charlie retorts. 

I steeple my fingers. “Please, can we—”

“You want to talk to me about love?” Ben slides his fingers through his wet brown hair, like he just jumped out of a shower and threw on a Dalton Hockey sweatshirt. He laughs. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Charlie mocks.

“Charlie,” Beckett says calmly to him in warning.

He ignores his twin brother.

Beckett places a hand on Charlie’s shoulder as he rises. Then he touches Ben’s shoulder on his way to greet me with a side-hug and a whisper, “It’s getting worse between them.”

“I know,” I whisper.

If our mom or dad were here right now, I doubt it’d be this hostile. It’d come with mediation that neither Ben nor Charlie is seeking.

Eliot and Tom are in talks at the bar cart, but they listen as the drama ensues.

“Tell me you love it,” Charlie presses on. “Tell me it’s everything you’ve ever wanted in your life.”

“I love it more than you’ve probably loved anything.”

“Oh?” Charlie falls forward on the chair legs. “You hate hockey then.”

Ben grimaces and stands up, like he plans to leave. “That’s not what I said.” He goes to the exit, but Beckett stops him with a consoling hand on his chest. He speaks quietly to Ben.

Charlie watches from across the dining room. “You believe I love nothing.” He calls out and catches Ben’s attention. “So the bar above that is hatred, brother.”

Ben breathes out hot breath. “You don’t know anything.”

“You’re afraid that I do.”

I steal Charlie’s gaze. “He’s seventeen.”

“You want to baby a seventeen-year-old, that’s on you.”

“I certainly don’t want to be an asshole to one.”

Charlie tips his head to me like fair. But with one last look at Ben’s welt, he says, “Then kill yourself over a stupid sport while it kills you. You think I don’t know love, but I can recognize hate.” Charlie heeds the warning look in Beckett’s eye and returns to his novel.  

Ben chooses the farthest seat from Charlie this time.

I sigh. Not blaming him for the distance. Maybe it’s what they both need.

 Thank you so much for reading this month's main bonus scene! It's a small glimpse into a Wednesday Night Dinner, but we love adding more lore to this mysterious and epic night. You'll obviously see more WNDs in the Cobalt Empire, so this is really just a small tease. We hope you enjoyed it!

Annnnd it's not over! This night continues in Part 2 with the entrance of Audrey Cobalt, which is coming very soon. So keep on the lookout!

xoxo Krista & Becca

   “Wednesday Night News: Part One," Copyright © 2024 by K.B. Ritchie