Acts of Service x 100
LEXI
Working full-time this far along, with her weight pushing against my bladder and a heavier ache pressing against my heart, is catching up to me.
I’m yawning for what feels like the tenth time in half an hour, stretching my mouth so wide my jaw pops, and still I try to disguise it behind my water bottle.
Of course, Josie catches me. Her eyes flick over from her station, a brow arched like she’s my older sister instead of my boss.
This job at the salon isn’t demanding in the least—answering phones, restocking shelves, smiling at guests, and offering sparkling water with lemon slices while they wait—but lately, every task feels magnified.
The constant hum of the blow dryers sets my nerves on edge.
My ankles swell when I sit for too long or stand, for that matter.
My lower back aches as if I’ve been restocking full boxes to the top shelves, not tiny bottles of product at eye level.
Even breathing feels like a chore. I’m not sure what’s heavier, the baby or the silence I crawl home to at the end of the day.
“That’s enough. I can’t watch you yawn one more time!” Josie teases, but her voice is too warm to be anything but concerned.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my voice comes out flat. I force a smile, even though it feels brittle, like my hair lately. “Maybe I should get up and walk around. Grab coffee from The Grind. Want something?”
“I’m good.” She tucks a strand of her perfectly styled hair behind her ear, studying me with that maternal gaze I wonder if I’ll be adding to my repertoire soon. “But you should head home, Lex. Rest. We’re done with appointments anyway. I’ll close up, then go spend more time with the family.”
The word punches through my ribs. Family. My stomach clenches, and I feel my expression twitch before I can smooth it over. Josie sees. Of course she does. Her lips press together, eyes apologizing without saying a word.
She doesn’t need to. She’s been nothing but supportive since I explained what happened, not leaving out a single detail.
I figured if anyone could understand what it’s like to be in my shoes with a man tangled up in the Viper’s MC, it’d be her.
But as the President’s wife, her loyalties are slightly more entangled than mine at the moment.
She’s not wrong, though, I need rest.
Because I haven’t really slept since Pierce left, the nights stretch too long, the bed feels too wide, and every creak of the townhouse sounds like a tale of my future.
And even though I logically know that the threats are gone, logic doesn’t tuck you in at night.
Logic doesn’t calm the restless ache when you roll over and the other side of the bed is cold.
Evan’s gone. Robert Montgomery is probably rotting in some deep grave on the outskirts of town, or whatever it is the guys do to deal with their problems.
I should feel safe. I really should.
But my body doesn’t trust my brain, and they’re both at odds with my heart.
My body craves his touch—the missing intimacy of soft caresses and the intense euphoria of pleasure.
My brain remembers the safety of feeling Pierce’s chest at my back, his steady rhythmic breaths syncing with mine until sleep pulled me under.
But it’s my heart that screams the loudest, remembering his confession.
He knew Evan was out of the picture while I was still unraveling, and decided to keep it to himself.
He texts me every single day, and every single day when his name pops onto my screen, my heart fractures all over again.
And then I do what any masochist would do in my situation: I reread every single last one, over and over, until the words blur.
I relive the fight that started this mess and tell myself to let it go.
That I’m being irrational, that what he did is no worse than what I did.
That if I had any sense, I’d stop bleeding over a wound he painstakingly took the time to heal.
But sense and love don’t exactly walk hand in hand.
“You sure you don’t want help cleaning up? I can—”
“Get. Go.” Josie waves her comb like a wand, her grin bright enough to break the heaviness pressing down on me.
I chuckle, lifting my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m going.” The sound feels foreign in my throat. It’s a relief to finally work for someone who cares if I burn out, rather than demanding it as standard practice.
I leave with a little less guilt, swing by The Grind, and order myself an iced latte with too much caramel drizzle. The cup is slick with condensation, the first sip bitter-sweet enough to wake me from the fog clinging to my bones.
Windows down, early summer air spilling in warm and fragrant with cut grass, I let the music thrum against my skin.
For the first time all day, I feel almost…
normal, almost like me. I even catch myself humming along, and the thought drifts in: maybe I’ll start painting the nursery tonight.
Perhaps doing something other than dwelling on my own decisions will help.
But when I pull into the townhouse lot, normal evaporates.
A truck I don’t recognize is parked in the second space beside mine. It’s plain—no decals, no tools tossed in the bed—just in my space. My stomach knots instantly. Could be nothing. A neighbor’s guest. Someone who doesn’t know our spots are assigned.
Still, unease curls low in my belly. I thought I was past this.
I tell myself not to spiral, not to give in to the thrum of adrenaline crawling over my skin. Besides, Harlow’s been dropping by all week, and if she comes tonight, she’ll bring her bike and won’t even need a spot.
I breathe through the irrational panic and head for the front door.
The air inside the townhouse feels… wrong.
I can’t quite place my finger on it, but the air buzzes.
My bags slip from my arms, thudding onto the hardwood, the echo far too loud.
Instinctively, my fingers drift to my wrist, brushing the tiny heart charm on the bracelet from Pierce.
One press and he comes. One press and I’m not alone. I know it.
But my hand hovers there, trembling, before falling away like magnets repelling each other. I don’t press. I can’t.
You’re overreacting, exhausted, filled to the brim with hormones. It’s nothing.
I tiptoe further in, my pulse hammering loud enough to echo off my eardrums. My mind scrambles as I try to convince myself to reach for the nearest thing, so I at least have a weapon.
Maybe I should get a dog—a pittie from the shelter. Someone who’d meet me at the door, nub wagging, letting me know when the house is safe, and it’s not just my anxiety pulling tricks.
The thought soothes me for half a second. Then I hear it.
A thud, followed by a muffled curse.
I’d know that voice anywhere.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. I shove my bedroom door open, heart lodged in my throat, only to be met with emptiness. The bed is still unmade from this morning. The blinds are tilted just the way I left them.
“What the hell…” The whisper barely makes it out.
Spinning, I cross the hall in two quick strides, shove the next door wide, and stop dead.
“Pierce, what the fuck are you doing here?”
His head jerks toward me, eyes wide, guilt flashing before anything else. A box of diapers tumbles from his hands, landing heavy on the rug at his feet.
A rug that wasn’t there before. Blush-pink, checkered, and plush enough, I want to curl my toes into it. My gaze drags upward, across the rest of the room.
My nursery is painted, furnished, and filled with boxes of unopened baby items. Nothing like the blank space I left just days ago.
“You’re not supposed to be home,” he says, voice rough and tired, like he’s been at it for hours.
“Right back atcha.” The words fly out sharp and breathless, but his mouth curves, just slightly. A sparkle flickers in his soft eyes.
“So this is still my home, Princess?”
Heat rises up my neck at the nickname, at the hope braided through the question, but I ignore it with all the grace of an elephant in stilettos. My words tumble out in a rush. “When did you do all this? How? Why?”
“You wouldn’t talk to me.”
“So you broke in to paint and decorate?”
It should infuriate me. Should send me into a storm of anger, with a lecture on boundaries, trespassing, and trust. But instead, I just stand there, my throat tight, because the longer I look around, the more my anger frays into something a lot like forgiveness.
Because he did it right. The board I kept tucked away on my laptop—he brought it to life. Every detail. The furniture I saved in a cart but never bought. The paint I’d spent an hour at the hardware store picking out—all of it.
It’s beautiful and just as I imagined.