Main Bonus #79: Last Minute Wedding Changes (Jane) (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.

CONSISTENCY: If you're looking to read the bonus scenes in chronological order,  Driving Out West  can be read before this bonus for more context.

MUSIC: We listened to “In My Blood” by Vitamin String Quartet while writing this bonus.  

MY MOM COMBS a wooden-paddled hairbrush through my hair. While she stands poised for war behind me, ready to slit the throat of anyone who’ll ruin my wedding, I’m sitting pin-straight at a vanity bench.

It’s an ungodly hour. The sky is fighting to be a lighter blue as dawn encroaches. And my mom is already fresh-faced, clear-eyed, and battle ready like the lioness she is. I do feel like the daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt today, but not in the ways most would think.

I don’t feel prepared to unsheathe a sword. I’m satisfied knowing I’m marrying a man who already has those weapons in his hands. Who will fight to the death for me and beside me.

But I feel like I’m made of steel. Like nothing could crumble the vulnerable insides that are meant for Thatcher.

Nothing can destroy our love today.

I’m sure of this. That we’ll come out of this wedding stronger than ever, but I don’t know about the other relationships involved.

“We have plenty of time.” My mom strokes the brush through my hair once more. Likely she senses my posture is stiffer than usual. “The stylist will be here in another hour. Whatever is left to do, I can take care of it. You need to worry about nothing.”

It’s obvious I’m gripping a clipboard and flipping through the printed itinerary I created. “I’m not worried,” I profess. “I’m just rechecking the state of things.”

“Things are perfect.”

They aren’t. I know they aren’t. She knows they aren’t. “I don’t need today to be perfect,” I say quietly. “I just need it to be happy.”

She sets the comb on the vanity, then takes a seat beside me on the bench. I’m in a white robe with my initials embroidered in blue over the breast.

She’s in a pale pink robe—which is such a strange sight. My mom almost always wears dark colors. Most notably black. But I gifted every woman in my family the same “get ready” robe in the same pastel hue. And I love that she was so quick to wear it for me.

We’re already at the venue. It’s an old historic castle outside of Philly. The women’s dressing room overlooks the gardens where the reception will be held. I haven’t even peered much outside since a rather large loose thread has been distracting me.

Her gaze narrows to razor-sharp pinpoints. Meant more to impale my insecurities than to hurt me. With a makeup-free, moisturized face, she is stunning. Her glossy hair lies straight on her shoulders and hardly contains a single strand of frizz.

I’m not envious. In most ways, I feel more than beautiful to have come from her. To be her daughter. I feel gorgeous in my own right, and sharing her company now is like drinking liquid self-assurance.

“Today is perfect in all the ways that matter,” she says strongly. “Which only boils down to two things. You and Thatcher. That’s it. Fuck everything else, so if you’re concerned about the happiness of anyone in attendance, don’t be.”

I’ve wanted to be liked by the Morettis, and for the most part, I believe I’m loved by them. But weddings can ruffle feathers, and I’ve tried to be fair to everyone. Hence, the long list of flower girls. Nieces that I didn’t even know Thatcher had are in the wedding party. Nieces that he’s barely even met.

And I’d much rather include his family than cause a world war among the Cobalts and Morettis. That can’t be in the cards for us.

It was already a point of contention that Thatcher chose no groomsmen from his side of the family—outside of Banks. Who now isn’t even going to be here.  

“There’s a lot of pressure on today,” I tell her. “This wedding feels like it’ll either unify our families or rip them apart.”

She’s staring at me in a strange way. Her fierce yellow-green eyes glass a little, but no tears are in threat of falling.

“What’s that look?” I breathe.

“I see so much of Daisy in you at times. It just reminds me how much my sisters were there when you were little.” She steels her gaze. “She’d care about hurting someone’s feelings too.”

“And you wouldn’t,” I realize. 

“I’m far from a people pleaser. I don’t give a shit if someone has a bruised ego because I didn’t high-five them or hug them or smile at them. Outside of a birthday, a wedding is the one day you can do what you want, when you want, and yes, someone will call you a bridezilla, but if you want to storm the city, then storm the fucking city. I will push everyone out of your way.”

I smile softly. I love her so much. Even as I say, “I don’t want to storm the city. I’m not even afraid of drama. I’d be more surprised by the lack of it. I just want…” everyone to love each other. I trail off, wondering if these are lofty expectations. I might be putting unneeded pressure on a day that should be free of it.

She takes the clipboard from me, placing it on the vanity beside bottles of Chanel Eau de Parfum. “Would you rather elope?”

“No,” I say fast. “No. I want this wedding, more than anything. I want it.”

“Why?”

“I want to celebrate the love I have for this amazing man in front of all the people I love. Our families. Together, always. Toujours.” I say it from my soul.

 She gathers her hands in mine, her nails painted matte black. “My firstborn, intelligent, viciously loyal, beautiful daughter. You are going to have what you want. It’s hours away, gremlin. You don’t need to be concerned about how people reciprocate the love you share with us. They’re assholes if they don’t receive it well, and let them be assholes. Or let me and your father deal with them, because I will sink my claws in and rip them apart—”

I laugh into overwhelmed tears, and she uses the sleeve of her robe to wipe mine away. I dab at the crease of my eyes, too. “As entertaining as that’d be, after today everyone is family, and therefore, everyone is a friendly.”

She fights a smile. “I’m so glad Richard isn’t in the room right now. Your father would be taking your side, and I’d be wanting to claw his eyes out. How’s that for a friendly?” I swear if she had a glass of wine, she’d take a hostile sip.

I smile wider.

Of my two parents, he is more of the peacemaker. And of my aunts, Daisy also fits that bill, so I’m not surprised she compared me to her today.

As I take a breath, I feel the release of a great deal of pressure. I can’t control how other people feel, especially if they come out of this feeling slighted in any way, but I can focus on what matters most and that is me and Thatcher.

Eagerness swarms me, and butterflies begin to flap in anticipation of marrying him. 

I’m already wearing my mom’s teardrop diamond earrings, but there is no material possession she could gift me that’d mean more than the confidence she instills. “Merci pour tout,” I whisper. Thank you for everything.

She strokes my hair with her fingers. “Pour toi, n’importe quoi.” For you, anything.

I glance back at the clipboard. “There is something I need to take care of very fast, and it has to be me…and him.” I can’t make this decision without Thatcher.

My mom seems to understand. “Go. I’ll man the castle.”

I grin as I rise. “It is what queens do.”

Her icy exterior breaks into a lethal smile. “You’re already a queen, my beautiful predecessor. Don’t fool yourself.”

I curtsey and smile back. “I do still like being a princess. I’ve never wanted to sit on a throne.”

“Tragic,” she quips, the sharp edges of her smile upturning even more.

“My softness. Disgusting,” I banter back.

“Bottle it and spray it at one of your brothers.”

“Which one?”

“The one who needs it.”

I know she’s referring to Charlie. “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing to Pippy,” I joke as she stands and passes me the clipboard I’d forgotten.

She has this conflicted look like she wants to ask me about Ben, but instead, she says, “You better hurry. I’ll call Search & Rescue if you’re not back within a couple hours.”

“Thatcher is practically Search & Rescue.”

“Exactly.” She whips her hair over one shoulder. “I have him on speed-dial. Go.”

I want to pick her brain about my brothers, but she’s purposefully trying to keep today focused on me. So I take the direction and leave the castle in her hands.

I type on my phone while I walk briskly along a cobbled pathway through the garden. I’ve already asked Thatcher to meet me.

I’m almost there. I send the text.

It’s officially November 1st. The morning of my wedding. The sky is now a softer shade of blue. Around me, leaves have begun to change a vibrant, crisp orange hue.

My white fuzzy slippers slap the shiny, damp stone as I follow a curving path. I disappear behind hedges and dip past pillars of white roses. Florists start milling around with gorgeous arrangements of colorful dahlias and pink verbenas, not noticing me slip quietly by.

Morning dew wets the earth, and I sense the humidity frizzing my brown hair. But I don’t care enough to race back inside and plant myself in the hair-and-makeup chair.

My pulse has been hijacked. It’s set to overdrive, speeding ahead of me.

What I’m doing is ill-advised. As a wedding planner, I’d tell my client, “I’ll smooth the wrinkles. You go get your hair done. Drink a mimosa. Your girl Jane has it handled.”

And yet, here I am—wild hair, dirtied slippers, and a makeup-free face. Smoothing some of my own wrinkles.

And yet, I can’t stop smiling.

Even with a big decision to be made, giddy anticipation has battled away all worry, and a strange thrill races my heart. Last night in the library with Thatcher gave me a sense of calm I needed for today with him, but it might be more than just that.

It might simply be that I function best within madness.

I smile wide at the incoming text.

I see you.

He sees me. I lift my head, and I see him too.

Thatcher Moretti is standing beside an ornate stone bench, a babbling brook rushing to the right of him. Ladies and gentlemen, this is going to be my husband in a handful of hours, and I feel as if I conjured him.

Like he came to me out of a dream.

Six-seven with a stern, protective stature—like he’s ready to wrangle a thundercloud from the sky. He’s literally casting a serious glance upward, and I have a feeling he’s scanning for drones. But when his focused gaze descends to me, the depth of his love tunnels into me like a slingshot, and I nearly trip in my pursuit of him. 

Thatcher isn’t dressed for the ceremony either, and there’s something completely captivating about the ruggedness of a man in jeans and a gray flannel.

He’s going to be yours forever, Jane.

And yet, it feels like he already is.

Each footfall quickens my heartbeat as I bridge the distance, and an inch away, I speak fast. “I really wasn’t sure if I should bother you with this, but it’s not a decision I can make on my own. And frankly, I’d rather do this with you than without you now that we know who can’t be here, and…” I stop myself from rambling, and I finally take a breath.

His serious gaze never leaves mine. “I’d be more upset if you didn’t call me for help. That’s what I’m here for, Jane.”

That’s why I love you.

Part of why.

It’s usually so easy for me to talk, but my lungs can’t capture enough oxygen and words flit in and out of my head.

I’m going to marry you. 

You’re going to be my husband.

It’s overwhelming. I didn’t think it’d be this intense, seeing as how I’m not in a wedding gown and he’s not in a tux yet.

He has a hand on his radio, but his attention veers down my frame for a sweltering second. He can’t see beneath the white robe, but lingerie is underneath, including a lace garter on my thigh with a baby blue ribbon.

The garter was a bridal gift from my sister. 

I shift the robe so he can’t see the garter peeking beneath. I’m trying to keep some surprises. But he lingers on my thighs, and I wonder if he did catch a glimpse.

Heat bathes me, and I smooth my lips together, feeling my uncontrollable smile. “You have a way of making me feel unclothed and beautiful.”

“Probably because I’m thinking about stripping you.”

“Bold,” I tell him. “To want to strip your fiancée before you say I do.”

I swear he nearly smiles. It’s practically elusive. Easy to miss. “I’m not shy.” His eyes return to mine, and that one deep look sends my heart into a spasm. It’s clear we’re both remembering last night beside the fireplace. Where he did more than strip me.

Decisions to make, Jane.

Right. “We don’t have long to figure this out…” I trail off as he gives me a look that says hold on.

He clicks his mic at his collar. “Say again?” He listens.

After a short pause, I ask, “I thought you were going off-duty for the day?” I’m not sullen that he’s involved with security on our wedding day. I think it’d make him more anxious if he was in the dark. More so, I’m curious about what the issues might be.

The venue is secure, private, and therefore no one needs to be superglued to their personal security.

“It’s just men at the entrance.”

I freeze. “Men?”

“Our men,” he clarifies. “The parameter is safe. They’re just rechecking the guest list.”

I squeeze my eyes. “Are we expecting party crashers?”

“Connor thinks press might try to get in. He’s already paid off about a dozen tabloids from flying choppers.”

It might’ve been easier to just invite the press. Which is what my parents did at their lavish wedding in France. But I didn’t want this to feel like a spectacle for the public. Not with the Morettis in attendance.

I smile at a thought. “My dad would do anything to ensure his firstborn daughter’s wedding goes off without a hitch.”

Thatcher shields the brightening sun with his hand. “Can’t blame him for going the extra mile. I’d go a thousand more for you.”

My cheeks hurt as I smile harder.

His hand curves against the crook of my hip, and his masculine scent drives my senses wild. “Until my knees give out,” he breathes, dipping his head down to mine. I clutch onto his waist, my lungs inflating and deflating with rapidity. My heart double-beats as our gazes trace over each other, and I think he might kiss me—but it’s only now that he sees the clipboard in my hand.

He takes it. “This is the problem?” He skates his other hand down my cheek, then finds my palm. I wish he could hoist me in his arms. I wish we could make love against the bench, but this isn’t the time or the place.

“Jane,” he groans.

“What?”

“You need to stop looking at me like that, honey.” He’s flipping through the papers, but he peers back down at me, and a sexy, rough noise rumbles against his throat.

“Like what?” I know what.

“Like you want my cock inside of you.”

“But I do want such things.”

His dark gaze flits to me, then back to the papers. “You’re gonna be the death of me someday.”

It pangs my chest. “Don’t die for me and I won’t be.”

He gives me a very serious, very stoic look. “You’re about to be my wife. If there is anyone I’d die for, it’ll always be you. Without mercy, without question.” He might as well bang a gavel at the finality of it all.

“Très bien,” I say. Very well. “And I extend the same to you.”

His shadowy smile emerges. “We need to figure out who’s standing next to us during the ceremony?” He’s realized the issue at hand.

“Oui. It’s changed now that your brother, Akara, and Sulli aren’t going to be here.” We have empty slots, and it’s made everything wonky and off-kilter.

With his hand in mine, Thatcher leads me deeper in the garden, away from the florists and wedding coordinators. Farther from the view of the windows where anyone inside can see us. We stroll slowly along the quiet, deserted path in private. Orange leaves hang overhead like a fiery tunnel.

I prattle on about the situation. “…we can’t have twelve anymore now that we’re down to nine, and I love math but this math isn’t filled with unfeeling variables, and it’s making it more difficult for me.”

Holding the clipboard, he scrutinizes the typed diagram that lists out his groom’s party and my bridal party.

The people who’d be standing on either side of us.

I’ve shaded the men in dark blue and the women in light blue on the print-out. Instead of the traditional “all girls next to me” and “all guys next to Thatcher”—we staggered them since girls are wearing pastel-colored dresses and guys have on pastel ties.

It’s symmetry.

And I had a longer list of who I wanted up there with us, including the girls of the family as bridesmaids, and Thatcher gladly accommodated them on his side, too.

Beside me, in order: Maximoff (man of honor), Audrey, Charlie, Luna, Beckett, and Vada.

Beside Thatcher, in order: Banks (best man), Sullivan, Akara, Winona, Farrow, and Kinney.

He slides out the pen from the metal clip of the clipboard, and he crosses out Banks, Akara, and Sulli. He doesn’t dole out optimism and say, “They can make it.”

After last night, we’ve both come to terms with the fact that his brother, his best friend, and my cousin won’t arrive in enough time.

However, in the off-chance they can make the reception, we’ve changed the morning ceremony to a late-evening one. All guests have been notified thanks to Moffy, my parents, and Thatcher’s mom. Pushing everything back a bit has given us enough time for a second rehearsal.

We had one early yesterday, followed by a rehearsal brunch, but we had stand-ins for the missing bridesmaid and groomsmen. Now that we’re certain they won’t be here, we need to lock down who’s filling their spots.

While he examines the chart, I tell him, “We can’t just leave their spots empty. It’d look lopsided, and I know it doesn’t have to be even. But it makes my eye twitch.” I feel like a child for even caring. “I know it’s silly.”

“It’s not silly.” His eyes tighten more at the paper.

It’s not as easy as finding three replacements, and I explain why. “I was going to ask Maria to be a bridesmaid. To fill Sulli’s spot, but even if we could tailor Sulli’s dress for her in enough time, Maria hasn’t made it to PA yet.”

I adore Maria Stokes. Growing up, she was like an older sister, but my actress cousin has been perpetually late to events. In our youth, it’s not something she’d been known for, but it’s become a habit later in life. Enough that press has noted her late arrivals to red carpets and movie premieres.

 Thatcher pauses mid-stroll. “So the dress is an issue?”

“Oui.”

He scans the diagram. “We can’t fill Sulli’s spot, so five girls need to remain. We had six on each side, so it’ll be five on each side now.”

I nod, watching him make notes alongside the chart. I smile a little more, especially as he writes: 5 – 5. He looks down at me and reads my expression. “You knew this already.”

I nod more heartily. “I figured our best option would be to keep the wedding party at ten. Which means we need to add one more groomsman.”

It dawns on Thatcher now. Why I called him here. Why he’s needed in this decision. “You want me to choose?”

“I can’t make this choice alone. It was easy including Charlie and Beckett since I’m closest in age to them, but I can’t pick between my last three brothers. And your family is going to want you to fill the spot with a cousin, which I’d understand if that’s what you want…” I trail off because he’s shaking his head roughly.

“I’m not doing that.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “Really, they’d want me to pick Tony, as some fucked olive branch. And like all hell is he going to be up there beside me or you.”

I bristle even thinking of Tony’s smug smirk on the other side of Thatcher. “It still leaves several options,” I say. “Eliot, Tom, Ben, or even Xander. I know how much he means to you.”

Xander was Thatcher’s client for so many years. He watched my cousin grow up and protected him during some crucial moments in his life.

Thatcher is in deep contemplation.

“We have time to decide,” I say quietly, as if this is a gentle topic. “We just need to make a decision before we rerun the rehearsal.”

His slides the pen into the metal clip, then hands over the clipboard. Resolution is on his face, not fear.

I don’t ask if he’s struggling to pick someone. “Have you…?”

“I’ve already made the choice.”

My lips part. “Pardon?”

“I know who I’m choosing, Jane.”

“That quickly?” I realize Thatcher has some unseen power that I covet and need. “…how?”

“Because I’m not thinking about whose feelings I could potentially fuck over.” He’s used to making hard calls.

“That’s more of what I was thinking about. The hurt I would cause by leaving someone out.”

“It feels better being chosen, Jane,” he expresses. “As a kid, I was eliminated from equations like this because I was a package deal with Banks.”

“A variable too large to add. Two and not one.”

He nods. “I would’ve loved to be picked over Banks. For someone to look at me and see me. Instead, people were afraid of hurting one of our feelings, but the funny thing is, we would’ve been happy for each other. We would’ve known the relationships we have with people are different to different degrees, and when people don’t honor that and they set us both aside, it hurts worse.”

“You will be setting certain people aside,” I rationalize.

“But I’m choosing the person who it’s gonna mean the most to.”

My lips rise. “Je vois.”

His brows knit together. 

“I see,” I translate. “And so, Mr. Moretti, I would ask who you’re going to choose, but instead, I have another wrinkle for you to smooth.”

“Whatever you need.”

“We have to reorder everyone beside us.” And it takes several minutes but we come to a conclusion together. I’ll retype the diagram later.

Thatcher tenses and slides a serious look to me. “You sure?”

For this to work, Moffy can’t be standing beside me anymore. “I’m sure,” I whisper. “I’ll talk to him.” I tuck the clipboard to my chest. “Are you sure?”

He has to pick a new best man. The person who’ll be right next to him. And his surprise didn’t shock me as much as it would’ve a year ago.

Thatcher nods. “Affirmative.” At this, we make peace with the final arrangement.

“Diviser et conquérir,” I tell him. Divide and conquer. We separate. Thatcher, to go recruit a new groomsman, and me, to go find my best friend.

It doesn’t take long to track down Moffy. He’s been running around, coordinating with the coordinators to ensure everything is going to plan for me, but I find him in the men’s dressing room where Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, and Tom are chilling in casual clothes and huddled over something I can’t see.

“What’s she doing here?” Tom asks, seeing me for a blip as I call out, “Moffy, I need you.”

“No sisters allowed!” Eliot calls out. 

I’m in the threshold, and Moffy pushes me out of the way, just as a loafer goes flying at me. It hits the door as he shuts it behind him.

We’re in the hallway on the second story, and I’m gaping at the closed door. “Charlie just threw a shoe at me.”

I hear Beckett’s muffled voice in the dressing room. Something about almost giving me a black eye on my wedding day. To which, Charlie replies, “I wasn’t aiming for her head.”

“Children,” I shake my head at Moffy.

He glances back at the door. “I hope they never grow up,” he jokes.

“There is a great possibility that may come true.”

“That’s terrifying.” He can’t stifle a smile, especially as he sees me in the bridal robe. He’s in an old Camp Calloway tee and jeans. “Bonjour, ma moitié.” His forest-green eyes sparkle with happiness.

I’m a little more nervous. “It’s just you and me, old chap.” I smile. “Plus your husband, your son, and my fiancé.”

“Your almost husband,” he points out. “You’re getting married…” His voice tapers out, and his smile fades. “What’s wrong?” He stands at attention, ready to bulldoze anyone for me.

“There’s an issue.”

“We can fix it.” He’s all confidence. “Hit me with it.”

I rip off the Band-Aid. “You can’t be beside me.” I explain the reshuffle of bridesmaids, the math, and show him the new written arrangement that I plan to type out. “It has to be my sister.”

And if I couldn’t love Moffy more, the instant smile and thunderous joy that spreads across his face is enough to catapult my love for him to new heights. “She will freak.” He laughs. “I have to be there when you tell her. That’s my only ask.”

“You will be. It’ll be a true spectacle.”

“She’ll love it.”

“She will.” His happiness for me and her is everything, and my love for him explodes. I wrap my arms around my best friend and squeeze. He squeezes back just as tightly. I think Thatcher is right. There are people who know your love for them can’t be contested, who see your love so clearly no matter what you do, and then there are those who need to see it and feel it a little more.

And as we pull apart, Moffy asks me, “Who is Thatcher going to choose?”

We hope you loved this little tee up to Jane & Thatcher's ceremony! We adore the mother and daughter moment together with Jane and Rose before Jane gets married. And of course, Jane relying on Thatcher and Thatcher being there for her so she doesn't have to make that decision alone. And Jane x Moffy will forever be one of our favorite friendships! It was such a fun bonus to write.

Who does Thatcher choose as his groomsman? You'll find out in the next bonus! It's wedding season!!

xoxo Krista & Becca

  “Last Minute Wedding Changes (Jane)," Copyright © 2024 by K.B. Ritchie