Seventy-Five Degrees

By Elle N. Burt

Betrayal stripped away everything Maximus Pierce thought he knew about life. The moment he caught his fiancé sleeping with his best friend and learned the child she carried did not belong to him; Max knew the wounds of infidelity would be too great to bear.

Born into a wealthy family with an esteemed reputation, Max struggles with the expectation to remain stoic as he moves on. With each attempt to piece back together his life, Max unravels, disappointing the people that love him most.

It isn’t until he meets Misty Taylor, a beautiful stranger with a secretive nature and an aversion to permanence, that he finds himself forgetting about the wounds from his past. But when the many colors of his new love don’t fit into the only world he’s ever known, Max begins to question the meaning of love, happiness and what he must sacrifice to have them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle N. Burt
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996167017

Elle N. Burt

Elle N. Burt grew up in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota as the eldest of three children. She spent her free time writing stories for fun, convincing family and friends to read them. After high school, Elle attended Howard University where she graduated with a B.A. in Business Administration and a concentration in Marketing. A self-proclaimed adventure seeker, Elle is always looking for something fun and exciting to do whether it is skydiving, flying trapeze lessons, or going to a festival. She currently resides in the Washington, DC Metro area where she works as a store manager for a retailer and indulges in frequent happy hours with friends.

Book preview

MAX

The woman lying next to him was in a motionless sleep. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, dancing across her toffee-colored skin, stopping at the nape of her neck. The rhythm of her breathing was even, un-faltered. The eight-hundred thread count sheets, the sink of the mattress, and the plush of the pillow all seemed to yield to the formation of her body. There was nothing to stop his eyes from drinking in the details of her face as he pondered the depths of her subconscious.

And yet, he hardly knew her name.

Hours ago, Max had been lying alone in his bed, feeling his skin react to the compounded sweat from days of not bathing. Anger and embarrassment burned at his core, immobilizing him. Words weren't descriptive enough to explain his plight. The sting of betrayal was severe, cutting into him.

His mind continued to conjure images of his fiancée, the woman he'd loved for the last four years, digging her fingernails into his best friend's back, as they fucked in the guest bedroom of the house. His house. The house he'd built for them, for their family. The images continued to circulate for days, weeks, and months. Sometimes accompanied by silent tears, other times evoking violent outbursts that resulted in him shattering all the designer dinnerware he'd ever purchased for her. Max recalled the way his chest tightened while watching his best friend's fingers run through her wavy, red hair, his fiancée's porcelain skin glistening with sweat, as another man's lips roamed places that belonged to him.

Max had been stunned.

He'd come home from work early for one reason: She hadn't felt well. While Amanda was plagued by the excessive discomfort associated with her third trimester, Max spent his energy ensuring that he could finance the wedding of her dreams and build a home where they could grow old. There was expectation, and Max was eager to provide for his fiancé and his baby. The baby. The countless nights he'd rested his hand on her stomach, feeling the movements of the life he'd been led to believe he'd helped to create. It had all been a lie! A lie that led up to the moment he found them. In his guest bedroom. Fucking.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head had been hard. He'd spent the past two months withdrawn, unable to actively participate in society beyond work, the mandatory Pierce family brunch, and church. Now, even attending Mass was becoming a challenge, with Bradley and Amanda sitting pews away, hand-in-hand. Oblivious. Peaceful. Indifferent to the pain they'd caused, the lies they'd told, and the life they ripped apart in order to have what they wanted. It was unbearable to witness. The plan was to wait for the anger to subside, but he'd been waiting for months.

The events of the night had come as a surprise. He'd forced himself out of bed. Forced himself to go out and get a drink. He thought of calling his older brother, Giles, and then decided against it. Company wasn't welcome on this particular night. Max planned on lamenting alone while sipping scotch.

At least, that had been the plan.

Max didn't know where she came from. He had no recollection of her walking in. For the past hour and a half, he sat surveying each passing woman, hoping someone would spark his interest. Anything. A small indication that he was moving on. But even the busty blonde who sat in the corner of the bar, tastefully dressed, didn't do it for him. He was hopeless. After his fourth drink, she seemed to materialize out of nowhere, sliding into the seat across from him with an intentional nonchalance, as if she'd been waiting for him. Her Bambi-brown eyes danced as she smirked.

I'm Misty. Your name?

He hesitated. Max hadn't been interested in entertaining a woman, especially one who engaged in sexual solicitations. But in her dark blue skinny jeans and black tank top, Max didn't think she was one of those types. If she were, she was quite modest.

Max, he stated.

Misty nodded, as if his name were common knowledge and she had been simply verifying for accuracy. Max shifted in his seat.

What are you sipping, Max? she asked, flagging down a waitress.

Not waiting for his reply, she ordered him a scotch and herself a vodka soda water. Belvedere please, she specified, tipping the waitress, who seemed perplexed by the entire exchange. It was good to know he wasn't alone.

You're alone, Misty stated.

You're alone? Max asked, refusing to acknowledge her assumption.

I'm always alone.

Before he could inquire further, their drinks arrived, and Misty was toasting to good company and Tuesday nights. Reservations began to dissipate as Max noted the fullness of her lips and the way they curved when she smiled. It didn't seem like she was flirting with him. She was sitting there, engaging him, as if they were friends. The more Max observed her, the more aware of her subtle beauty he became. She wasn't heavily made up. Her hair brushed her bare shoulders without any pretense. It was clear that she wasn't putting forth any effort to impress him. Misty hardly said anything beyond a few vague phrases about the noise level in the bar and how it seemed like a slow night. Max gathered that she was acquainted with the owner, and he considered what that relationship entailed. Either way, she intrigued him, and all Misty did was sip her drink and smile.

Perhaps it was the scotch or his dire need for release, but Max asked her to a hotel and attempted to hide his surprise when she agreed. Doubts flooded his mind as he realized what he'd incited. Amanda had been the only woman he'd been with in the last four years. What if he wasn't as good as she'd led him to believe? Would he even be able to go through with it? He didn't know this woman.

They hadn't traveled far to find a decent hotel in the neighborhood. Checking in felt strange. He was with a stranger. Potentially a hooker? An underdressed hooker? No. Max didn't believe that. That couldn't be true. The elevator ride to the room was silent. He could feel her eyes on him. Assessing him. Max shifted his weight and felt the bulge between his legs as he thought of her lips on his body. The hotel room door closed behind them. He stepped towards her and began to unbutton her shirt… Slowly. It must have been too slowly.

You don't really want to do this, do you? Misty asked, somewhat amused.

The temperature in the room was too warm. Max felt the heat rush through his body as he focused on the stunning woman in front of him. Doubts be damned. He did want to do this. He needed to do this. Surging with lust, Max tore Misty's shirt open and led her to the bed. Controlled by carnal desires, they explored the depths of one another, adorning the room with moans of pleasure. Discovering her body became a need, as essential as food and water, a thirst he couldn't quench. Breathless but aroused by her womanliness, he wouldn't let the pleasure stop; his appetite for her grew more and more insatiable as she invited him to explore her in ways he never had before.

And now, Max was looking at her. Wondering about the woman he'd been inside of. Wondering who she was and where she came from. Wondering how she ended up at his table. Did she do this often? Would she want to do it again? The questions lingered in his mind as he brushed back the dark hair that covered her eyes. His gaze was intense, etching the details of her face into his memory. This woman was a stranger. And yet, there was something extraordinary about her…an intangible he couldn't articulate.

Sometime between examining Misty and sunrise, Max fell asleep. When he finally woke up, the space where Misty once lay was empty. He stared at it, bewildered, wondering if he'd dreamt her. But even his wildest dreams couldn't produce the mystery of the woman he'd been inside. Max rubbed his eyes and noticed a note left on her pillow. Written in eyeliner were her name, number, and a message: Call if you want.

The nonchalant connotation of the message was discouraging. Clearly the impression he'd left on her wasn't anything like the impression she'd left on him. He'd been tossed aside once before, and there was no reason to place himself in that predicament again. Max threw the napkin in the garbage.

He was done.

MISTY

DC in the morning felt tranquil. Traffic was nonexistent. Sidewalks were clear. It was a city that slept. Misty appreciated the quiet, especially since she was prone to walk at the most perilous hours of the night, drifting from one place to another, as if she didn't belong anywhere. For the most part, she belonged to herself. She was a motherless and fatherless child, raised by her uncle, Terry, who was too busy trying to keep the streets of Minneapolis safe to really pay attention. The life of a detective wasn't conducive to single parenting, especially when he'd never wanted a family of his own.

Commitment takes energy, and I don't have any, Uncle Terry used to tell her whenever Misty questioned whether or not the women who dropped by unannounced were his girlfriends. She'd grown to accept that she'd never have an aunt or cousins, and perhaps it was better that way. Uncle Terry seemed to stretch himself thin, concerning himself with her whereabouts and working on whatever case he'd had at the moment.

Misty had been her uncle's inheritance when her father died. She was only one when Uncle Terry started caring for her. Throughout the years, Misty never had the courage to ask how he'd felt about it. It was clear that he loved her as if she was his own, but there was nothing convenient about her existence in his life. Early on, Misty learned to cook and clean up after herself so as not to be a burden. Sure enough, when Uncle Terry realized she was capable, he left her alone at an inappropriate age and merely checked in via telephone. When he was home, he engaged her enough with a movie or a trip to the lake. They didn't talk about her parents much.

Misty had asked about them once when she was five. It was Mother's Day, and that week in school all of the kids had made cards for their mothers. Misty made a card, but later realized she didn't have anyone to give it to. That Sunday morning, Uncle Terry was sitting in his La-Z-Boy chair eating a hoagie sandwich when Misty placed herself in between him and the TV. Uncle Terry knew this was a sign she needed his attention, something Misty didn't require often.

Uncle Terry, I have a card but I don't have anyone to give it to, she'd declared.

Well, what's the card say? Misty should have noticed his worried expression. Looking back, it was clear that he'd forgotten it was Mother's Day, and the thought of Misty noticing the distinctions between her family and the family of other children had never crossed his mind. But Misty knew without question that she was missing key elements.

It says, 'Happy Mother's Day! Love, Misty!' she'd exclaimed. But I don't have a mother, do I?

The look on Uncle Terry's face was one she would never forget. He seemed angry, uncomfortable, and ill-equipped to answer such a question.

No. Not anymore. She died years ago. But she loved you. And she would've loved that card. Let's hang it on the refrigerator.

Did you know her? Misty remembered asking, but Uncle Terry met the question with silence as he pretended to fumble with a magnet to get the card placement just right. Misty didn't bother repeating herself. She was perceptive even at the age of five. Especially of Uncle Terry.

The card sat on the refrigerator for a week. When Father's Day came around, Misty didn't ask any questions or show Uncle Terry what she'd made. She simply hung the card on the refrigerator until he took it down a week later. She always found it interesting that her spelling tests would stay up for a month, but the cards for her deceased parents hardly made it from Sunday to Sunday.

From that point on, Misty decided that the subject of her parents was best left unaddressed. More questions would only make Uncle Terry sad, and she didn't see a reason to bring up sad things. Life was how it was. If Uncle Terry could accept it, so could she. Misty never asked about her parents again. After a while, she grew comfortable with not knowing. When friends or boyfriends would ask, Misty would shrug as if the thought had never occurred to her. People didn't understand, but she wasn't asking them to.

As Misty stumbled to her overpriced apartment in Chinatown, she prayed for a breeze to break the heat. Summer had hardly begun and already it was sweltering. All of the weddings and parties she was planning this season were outdoors. Despite being the youngest account manager for Linda Carmichael Events, Misty's summer was booked. No one needed to tell Misty that she was exceptionally good at her job. She had the highest percentage of repeat customers and her business grew by word-of-mouth. During business lulls, Linda had been savvy enough to place Misty on specific accounts with her most revered clients. She was proud of the work she did. It was fun and normal, and Misty was only required to think about things she wanted to think about. Like parties.

The owner and CEO, Linda Carmichael, had been a thirty-six year old stay-at-home mom who always threw parties for her family and friends when she decided to start her own business. The killer part was how quickly it took off. Misty had been hired right out of college, making only $35,000 a year plus commission. Many of her classmates thought she was silly for taking such a low-paying job. Many of them had entry-level positions with consulting firms or investment banks, making a minimum of $10,000 more than her. It seemed everyone was bragging about their offers but Misty. She'd even begun to doubt herself, but in the end, she liked her job and it paid off. Within a year, Misty was promoted to account manager and her salary and commission had increased. Instead of living with strangers from a craigslist ad, as she'd been doing since graduation, she now could afford to live alone.

The brand Misty was building kept her anchored. People, especially her colleagues, didn't know her well, and she preferred to keep it that way. Curiosity always outweighed propriety, which led colleagues to ask annoying questions she simply couldn't address. Last year, the receptionist who sat at the front desk, Ms. Trout, thought she was being funny when she placed an invite to Christmas dinner at her home on Misty's desk. Misty was offended by the kind gesture once she realized she was the only employee who had received an invite.

Maybe she really likes you, West Mattson, the only co-worker Misty actually liked, had suggested. Misty found West's questionable sexuality, witty tongue, and judgmental comments amusing.

That old bat doesn't like me. She pities me. I fucking hate her.

Why would she pity you? You have great cheekbones and white teeth.

Misty had looked at West to see if he was kidding. He wasn't. But West had a point. There was no reason for Ms. Trout to assume Misty didn't have anywhere to go for the holidays. The presumption alone irked her. Later, Misty made a point not to attend the office retirement party for Ms. Trout. She'd scheduled an appointment with a client, an excuse Linda accepted without batting an eye.

Discretion was important to her. Although she liked West, the way the details of his own life came rushing out of his mouth without a filter made Misty as skeptical of him as anyone. Consequently, he wasn't privy to her juicy stories. Juicy like how she saw her most recent client's brother at a bar by himself, looking like he was going to slit his wrists, and somehow she'd ended up in a hotel room with him. Max would never understand how leaving her phone number was an act of kindness, a just in case type of thing. Whether he used it or not made no difference.

When she'd sat down across from him, it had taken her a while to adjust to his striking Nordic features. His eyes were a piercing light blue. His wavy, blonde hair hung just below his ears, and his pink lips held an unexpected fullness. It had been easy to identify Max from the pictures she'd seen. His younger sister, Leah, was Misty's newest client, and was easily becoming her most gregarious client as well. She'd been very forthcoming about her family: their occupations, their hobbies, and how great they all were. Misty had wanted to inform her that their greatness was a matter of opinion but thought it best not to tamper with her commission. Instead, she listened with feigned interest; annoyed by all of the time Leah had wasted showing pictures of family members instead of potential floral arrangements. Seeing Max sitting there, alone, in a bar, Misty knew she was about to play the lead role in a great story to tell.

And she did.

Max was easily ten years her senior, but it was clear he'd never been a sexual prowler. It was almost as if he hadn't known what to do once he'd gotten her alone. And then, suddenly, his animalistic instincts unleashed, and he was gripping her breasts, pulling her hair, and sliding his tongue into intimate places. He'd been good. Fun. Satisfying at the very least. Misty understood men like him. The ones who were having a rough day and needed something soft to remind them of the wonders of the world and how those wonders could all belong to them. If it just so happened that Leah's brother was a forgetful man, Misty wouldn't mind indulging in another well-placed reminder.

* * *

"I need to tell you something." Stella took another shot of whiskey and chased it with Sprite. Her thin, henna-covered hands tugged on her light brown dreadlocks as she winced from the burn of the alcohol. Misty giggled and sipped her glass of sangria, noting the ambulance storming by. The shrill sound of the siren combined with the ease of the summer breeze was hypnotizing. Misty's love for the city paled in comparison to her love for her best friend's company.

Are you listening? Stella asked after flagging down the waiter for another shot. No one needed to tell her that Stella was drunk. And it wasn't even noon. The hazel in her eyes seemed so much more pronounced when she was inebriated. They glistened in angst, as if she were desperate to divulge her secret.

I'm listening. Misty leaned forward.

I saw Devan.

Where?

This party I went to last night.

Okay.

I fucked his cousin.

Which cousin?

Daniel.

Misty nodded and took another sip of her sangria, as if Stella had said nothing at all. Her friend continued to stare at her expectantly, but Misty couldn't make eye contact.

Does it matter to you?

Does it matter to me that you fucked Daniel or that you saw Devan?

Either.

No.

No to what?

No to both.

Stella sighed and smiled up at the waiter as he delivered her fourth shot. The vibrancy of her copper skin nearly twinkled in the sunlight. Nothing short of a walking, breathing, spectacle, Stella was a sight to see, an unconventional beauty, and easily the only person Misty knew whose sloppiness didn't increase with her blood alcohol level. Her ancestry was a mix of Indian, both dot and feather, which, according to Stella, was the culprit for all of her innermost conflictions. Misty didn't see the conflict. She just listened.

Their friendship had been peculiar from the beginning. Despite Stella's recklessness, there was something protective about her that Misty appreciated. They'd met at a fraternity party during their freshman year of college when Stella saved Misty from sleeping with the wrong guy. By wrong guy, Stella meant the guy she'd slept with the month prior and contracted chlamydia from. The thoughtful gesture resonated with Misty. Many people weren't looking out for her. Their strange initial encounter resulted in the formation of a friendship that quickly turned into a sisterhood.

Devan asked about you, Stella said before biting into a pastry. Don't you want to know what he said?

Do I?

He asked if you were dating anyone. He asked if you missed him.

The last time Misty saw Devan, the gentleness in his brown eyes had vanished. Only the chill of regret and disappointment stared back at her. Misty promised herself that she'd never let it get that bad again. She hadn't meant for it to get that bad the first time, especially with Devan.

What did you tell him?

I told him you were the same.

A small, nearly nonexistent smile crept onto Misty's lips. Thank you.

Stella threw back the fourth shot and suppressed a burp. You, my Misty, are welcome.

MAX

No matter how many times he blinked, the numbers on the spreadsheet refused to change. Ralph, his accountant and trusted financial advisor for the past two years, sat across from him wearing his usual grave expression. The financial state of Max's business had no bearing on Ralph's unpleasant countenance. Whether he was making or losing money, Ralph's temperament remained un-faltered. Max had grown accustomed to disregarding the older gentleman's indifference. He met Ralph at a time in his life when he was eager and full of possibility. From the very beginning, Ralph failed to mirror his enthusiasm. Initially, Max thought Ralph was aiding him as a favor to Amanda's father; he and Ralph had had a business relationship for the past eight years. After learning about Max's plans to start a second practice, Amanda's father was eager to secure the success of his future son-in-law, and presented Max with Ralph. Once Max and Amanda broke up, Max figured he'd have to replace Ralph, given that he was advising him as a favor and not because he seemed to want to. But when Ralph called Max grumbling about a missed appointment, Max began to realize that he'd read the old man wrong.

Well…I'd assumed that given the current situation, I would need to find someone else, Max had clarified.

There was a pause, as if Ralph was considering his logic.

Don't miss anymore appointments without calling me in advance. See you in a few weeks. Ralph's statement was short, almost curt, as if he were angry about something beyond his time being wasted. But when Max met him a few weeks later and then again after that, he realized that Ralph didn't need to say anything at all. Business wasn't meant to be personal, and Ralph had the wisdom, patience, and business acumen that Max lacked. And Max needed him more now than ever, even if the news he was delivering was unpleasant.

Why am I losing money again? Max asked, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Well, there are a few reasons. Ralph cleared his throat and began speaking in a gruff voice that reminded him of his great-grandfather. Or, at least, what he remembered of his great-grandfather. The main reason is that you aren't seeing enough patients at the second location. Splitting your time isn't paying the bills. Profit margins on the first practice have gone down, and what you're making at the second isn't worth a damn thing, if I might put it plainly. Another month like this and you are going to have to close shop.

And what are the other reasons?

None of them are as significant as what I just mentioned, Ralph said, closing his portfolio. Might I suggest hiring another doctor? Someone to bring in some revenue when you can't be in two places at once?

What about the money saved from the first year?

Ralph shook his head. It's all gone, Max.

The first year his practice had exploded. Finding a quality dermatologist was hard and getting an appointment was even harder. It was clear that Max had found his niche. But what would he have to show for it if he couldn't keep the lights on? What if he couldn't pay his nurses or his office manager? His team had been with him since the beginning. There was no way he could let them down. The failure of his practice would not only mean significant financial loss, but more embarrassment.

Max leaned back in his office chair and closed his eyes in exhaustion. Somehow, it felt unfair for him to have trouble professionally when so much was going awry personally. The second practice had been what was going to set him up for life: him, Amanda, and the baby. Between the location in DC and the location in Bethesda, Maryland, Max had anticipated a comfortable lifestyle at the very least.

This is my dream house, Amanda had whined, when she'd knowingly picked the model that was out of their budget. His budget.

It was her expensive tastes that drove him to expand sooner than he'd planned. Max's father had always given his mother what her heart desired, and he'd never had a problem doing it. Max's older brother Giles was the same. He and Sarah had been married for seven years and whatever she named, she got within a year. Max specifically remembered Giles house hunting in Maine, because Maine, of all places, was where Sarah had wanted a second home. Maine was not Giles's location of choice but for his wife, he bought the second home there and was no more the fool for it. Unfortunately, Max could not say the same.

Listen, kid, you have two options: Shut it down or find a way to bring in more revenue. You need another doctor who can bring in business when you aren't there.

But then I'd have to deal with egos-

I'm just telling you the options, Ralph interjected, rising to his feet.

Without another word on the subject, Max thanked Ralph for his time and escorted him to the door. The older man hobbled more than he walked. One of his legs was longer than the other, creating an unsightly imbalance. Max often wondered how Ralph had become acquainted with Amanda's family. They were a petty and pretentious group. While Ralph's expertise made him an attractive financial adviser, he was physically unappealing. His large eyes seemed to bulge from his face, and his oversized nose had a sharp curve at the end and was shaped more like a parrot beak. Dark freckles blemished his head, and only four strands of hair kept him from being completely bald. By all accounts, he was a small man, but his arms looked more like transplants. They were long and awkward, while his legs were short and uneven. It was interesting that Amanda's family had such an acquaintance, regardless of his dexterity.

Then again, Ralph was wealthy. The latter alone was enough to buy him friends. His reputation called for people to listen when he spoke. Max was one of those people. As much as Max didn't want to hear it, Ralph was right. There was nothing else for them to discuss. The idea of shutting down the Bethesda practice made him nauseated. Hiring another doctor was not ideal, but Max was going to have to do something if he wanted to save his business. The stress seemed to