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Thatcher laughs first, the sudden noise deep but light.
Banks smiles into laughter too, and I brighten and realize how somewhere deep down, I knew Thatcher would find humor in this exchange. He’s become less of a mystery, and I’m so incredibly fond of the man next to me.
Or rather…the man I’m sitting on.
I blow out a breath, my heart beating wildly.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
I’m in love.
Don’t be frightened, Jane.
I’m trying.
Thatcher nods to his brother. “See that, you had some common sense at fourteen.”
“Yeah. But still less than you,” Banks says, lips upturned. Happy that Thatcher is smarter, but Thatcher already shakes his head like his brother is brighter and better. Their pride in each other and for each other is as deep as the Bering Sea.
Banks swallows a mouthful of beer, then passes the glass back to me. “What else should we worry about?”
He means the twin swap.
“Piercings?”
“None,” they say in unison.
Thatcher let out a frustrated breath.
“That question was for me,” Banks says to him. “She already knows you have no piercings.”
He scowls. “Statazitt’.”
“You shut up,” Banks rebuts.
I smile into another sip of beer, finding their relationship the sweetest as can be. “What about scars? Thatcher has quite a few.”
He actually has many. Most are small and scatter his chest.
Banks lifts a shoulder. “I have some, but Tony won’t be able to tell us apart from them.”
Thatcher nods in agreement.
“Your hand,” I mention to my boyfriend.
He removes his left hand off the binder, just enough to touch his bent ring finger. Thatcher looks concerned.
Banks shakes his head. “Barely anyone notices that.”
“Yeah, let’s hope,” Thatcher says strictly. “Or I’m going to kick my twenty-five-year-old self in the ass for re-breaking the same knuckle.”
We all conclude that it shouldn’t be much of an issue, and I think about another angle. How Banks will be left in Philadelphia pretending to be Thatcher.
“We aren’t planning to tell my parents or aunts and uncles about the twin swap, are we?” I ask. “Because I can’t be certain they won’t tell the Alpha lead.” They’re all very close to Price Kepler. He’s been Aunt Daisy’s bodyguard for over twenty years.
Thatcher frowns at me. “If you asked your parents to keep this a secret, you don’t think they would?”
We, Cobalts, are notorious secret-keepers and loyal to the very death, so I understand his confusion.
“I do think they would,” I say softly, “at least 98% of me does, but there’s 2% uncertainty.”
Banks asks, “Where’s the 2% coming from?”
Uneasiness sinks my stomach. I glance up.
Thatcher rubs his mouth a couple times and then nods. “Me.”
“I’m the first Cobalt to be in a relationship,” I explain, “and I just can’t predict whether my mom and dad will challenge you or profess immediate fealty. It’s too soon to tell, and in my mind, there’s not enough substantial data.”
Thatcher and Banks lock eyes and speak through a long look, and then Banks shrugs. “It’s not like you’re supposed to be around Connor and Rose. You’re on Hale duty. I can pretend to be you and protect Xander. Easy.”
Thatcher looks grave. “If you run into her parents—”
“I won’t. It’s only a week.”
I nod. “Since it’s such a short timespan, it’s easier just not telling them. We don’t need to add in more variables.”
Just as they agree, the bar quiets to murmurs, and I follow gazes as the door clatters shut.
Snow and cold air blown inside, Maximoff lowers the hood of his Eagles sweatshirt, and Farrow combs back his bleach-white hair. Hand in hand, they weave their way between nosy looks and side-eyes to reach our spot.
I instantly smile.
Maximoff lets go of Farrow and nears me. “Bonsoir, ma moitié.” His forest-green eyes sparkle with happiness. There’s nothing less that I’d want for him.
I stand off Thatcher to hug my best friend. We breathe deeply, and Moffy kisses both my cheeks. Attention presses on us, but thankfully some bar chatter reignites.
“It’s just you and me, old chap.” I smile more. “And my boyfriend, your fiancé, and my boyfriend’s brother.” My cheeks hurt at this declaration, but his smile drops faster and he glances over at Tony.
I prickle. “Yes, he’s unfortunately still here.”
Maximoff grimaces. “I think he’s smirking at me.”
“I don’t even want to look.” I pay more attention to the bodyguards we like. Subtly, they shift around us. Thatcher rises from the stool and positions himself next to Banks. Farrow does the same, all three creating a semi-circle barrier between us and bar patrons.
Moffy and I are pushed up against the sticky counter. Where I’m sure is the safest place to be. I excitedly grab the messy binder, stuffing loose papers back inside. “I found some great cost effective vendors, especially for flowers.”
“Before that,” Moffy whispers, “did you talk to Thatcher about He Who Must Not Be Named?”
Tony has reached Lord Voldemort levels of evil for Maximoff ever since he overheard my bodyguard crack a “joke” about Thatcher and Banks sleeping with me.
Something along the lines of, she likes that two-for-one action?
I’ve been venting to Moffy about how much I hate Tony and how much I wish I could vent to Thatcher, and it was eating me inside out.
“I told him everything,” I whisper and breathe out a lighter breath.
Maximoff smiles, able to see that I’m at a better place. “So Janie Dark Ages is diverted?”
“Sufficiently.”
“Forever.”
“We can only hope.” I lean my hip into his side, and he wraps an arm around my waist. Our backs to the bar, we stare ahead.
His fiancé and my boyfriend speak under their breaths to one another, seeming very civil, and that is profoundly new.
Maximoff squints. “Are we in the same universe?”
“This feels unfamiliar.”
“If they hug, we took a wrong damn turn somewhere.” He watches more closely as Farrow bites the tip of his black leather glove with casual ease, pulling it off. Maximoff’s Adam’s apple bobs.
I stifle a laugh.
Farrow has put a
spell on him, and it would be the millionth-and-one time. I watch Thatcher say one more thing to Farrow, then he speaks into comms with authority. His gaze—all bold hardness—rakes the bar.
I ache to step into his arms.
“Why did God have to make gloves?” Maximoff asks, forcing his face into a scowl.
My dad would not appreciate that mention of God. I don’t mind as much. “God didn’t make gloves,” I whisper. “But they’ve been around since the Romans, and it’s not gloves you’re drooling over.”
“You’re right,” he says with an exhale, “I’m drooling over the floor.”
I laugh.
When Farrow bites off his second glove, he catches Maximoff staring. His knowing smile causes Maximoff to glower. 9 out of 10 for hiding his affections. I’d wave pompoms if I had them.
Farrow raises his brows in a teasing wave, and all Moffy can do is flip him off.
I smile less when I see a vocal middle-aged man behind the SFO bodyguards—he’s yelling drunkenly at Thatcher’s back. I can’t distinguish the words over the loud bar chatter.
Thatcher shakes his head sternly at me, as though to say, ignore him.
I try to.
Once we begin discussing wedding details, we crowd closer to each other. I open the binder on the bar and we go through the spreadsheets.
“The florist said I could have a 50% discount if I advertise on Instagram.”
“No,” Moffy says firmly. “Even if you weren’t still in a Cobalt Social Media Black-Out, I don’t want you to have to do paid advertising.”
“The exposure helps local vendors,” I remind him. “It’s good for their business, and my brothers, sister, and I plan to end the Black-Out tomorrow. I’ll be back on Instagram.”
Maximoff cracks a knuckle, thinking longer. He loves the idea of helping others, but I know he’s weighing this against a million other factors. “Or we could just pay full cost, Janie. It’d give more money to the vendors.”
“In the short-run,” I tell him. “Long-run, advertising would help.”
He turns to his fiancé. “What if we do both?”
“Free advertising?” Farrow tucks his gloves in his back pocket. “See, this is a wedding, not a charity party.”
“Sorry, man. I totally forgot you’ve thrown a hundred weddings before ours.” His sarcasm is thick. “How were all those divorces?”
