by K-lee Klein
LAZY SUNDAYS
K-LEE KLEIN
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
This edition:
Copyright © 2018 by K-lee Klein
Cover Design © 2018 Karrie Jax
Photographer © Christopher John, CJC Photography
Model Jamieson Fitzpatrick 2017
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Published in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
About the Author
Other Books by K-lee Klein
The Stone Magic Series
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
The original Lazy Sundays was a free short story I wrote in 2011. I followed it up with a little sequel called Lazy Valentines. But this version of Lazy Sundays is not just a rerelease.
On top of the massive editing/rewrite I did on both books, I’ve also added more than double the content to Devon and Scott’s universe. Lazy Sundays can be defined as an opposites attract romance, and the new version gives more insight into the differences between Scott and Devon—physically, mentally, emotionally. They have to learn trust and patience while they fall head over heels in love with each other. They suffer through a little angst, a dash of fun, and a whole lot of love.
I hope you enjoy their story.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Lazy Sundays (the original version) marked the first time I received an honest to goodness fan letter. It goes without saying just how excited I was, and even better, I made a very special friend. Thank you, Will. Your letter made me want to keep writing.
I have a lot of other people to thank on behalf of Scott, Devon, and myself…
Sharon for her patient editing skills and for putting up with a last-minute diva like me.
Karrie for always giving me the perfect cover.
Chris for shooting a gorgeous photo.
Jamieson for being my cover-boy Devon.
Jim for line edits and being a special long-time friend.
Denise her betaing skills.
Deanna for letting me borrow her name for a good cause.
And as always, Kaje who is my blurb guru.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to everyone who read the first version of Lazy Sundays and hounded me about getting back to Devon and Scott’s story. To be honest, one of the reasons I picked it up again was because they were the first original couple I ever wrote and somehow readers still remembered them after many years. I was humbled, and really loved having them in my head again. So thank you for bringing them back to me. <3
CHAPTER ONE
Watching someone sleep must rate highly on the stalker scale.
It didn't matter that the bed belonged to the person doing the watching, or that said person was not sneaking around or hiding while they were doing the stalking. None of that was an issue for Scott Weston. It was more the fact he succumbed to the urge every single time he woke up in his bed beside this stud-muffin, and since that number was almost in the double digits, sleep-stalking had become a very special activity in his life.
And it was just as pathetic as sounded.
Of course, Scott never purposely woke up early to stare at the beautiful, tattooed man who had, by some ridiculous stroke of luck, become his lover. Certainly not. He didn't constantly think about how soft Devon's eyelashes looked fanned over his cheeks, or how cute he was when his bottom lip puffed out the tiniest bit as he snored, or how he muttered and giggled—actually giggled—in the middle of a dream. Certainly not. And Scott's heart definitely didn't thump manically against his ribcage when Devon reached for him after Scott left the warmth of his bed. Preposterous. Plus, it wasn’t the least bit adorable how his guy snuggled Scott's pillow when the real thing wasn't available. Certainly not.
No-Siree. Scott’s obsession—if he really needed to put a label on it—with Devon was strictly a scientific endeavor since he couldn't for the life of him figure out why the guy kept coming back. Scott prided himself on having a rational, logistically configured brain and there was nothing about Devon reappearing time and time again that fit into any of his logically set-up hypotheses. The data that caused the unexplainable outcome was overwhelming but did not compute in Scott's ever-churning mind. Sure, the sex was great, and in that way they were very compatible—if not outstanding—but in all other ways, they didn't have much in common.
First of all, Devon DuCaine was smoking hot. Not simmering or smoldering; smoking like a forest fire in the pits of Hell. It was totally unfair that even his name was hot. Deeeeevon DuuuuuCaaaaine. From the first time he'd introduced himself with that sexy Southern accent—another mystery considering they were in downtown Vancouver—Scott had been weak in the knees. And there, that right there—weak in the knees—was another clear example of how ridiculous it was for Scott and Devon to even have a conversation let alone a relationship, or whatever it was they were having. Scott was the kind of guy who used phrases more suited to an old-fashioned lady sitting in her rocking chair drinking lemonade on her quaint porch.
Devon, on the other hand, was more likely to say, “You rock my fucking world, dude,” which may or may not have made Scott blush.
Though Scott didn't believe there was any certain way to be a man, much to his mother's chagrin, he still considered Devon to be the epitome of a man's man; every single holey-jeaned, tight-T-shirted, tattooed, motorcycle-boots-wearing bit of him. A hint of eau-de-motor oil mixed with coffee and some kind of lumberjack woodsy scent followed him around like a tribute to masculinity.
In truth, Scott barely knew a motorcycle from a scooter and it was another one of those illogical incompatibilities in their relationship. Not to mention, he'd never considered that there was anything enticing about the smell of any kind of oil, but damn, Devon pulled it off with a sexiness that Scott couldn’t resist. He wanted nothing more in life than to lick him all over, all the time. And he partially accomplished that—a lot.
Yet the way Devon looked, carried himself, the way he smelled so fabulous, weren't the only discombobulated, non-matchy things they did not have in common. The man had been just short of begging Scott to watch a football game—a sporting event for heck's sake—on a couple of those Sundays he woke up in Scott's bed. Apparently Devon’s beloved Saints relied on his support in what would surely be “the best fucking game of the season”. Scott sat close beside him, feigning intere
st, and trying but failing to pretend he knew what the hell was going on. Fortunately, it didn't take long for Devon to find him out. But neither of them seemed to care. Quality time was quality time in Scott’s book.
So the whole oh my god no sports thing added another checkmark to Scott's growing list of differences between them. Not that he had plans to discontinue his viewing vigil. Any Devon time was Devon time well spent. Whether it was snuggled close in bed or watching men pummel each other on television, Scott didn’t mind. How could he, with his head tucked into Devon’s lap, and book he had no intention of reading dangling from his fingers? Over-the-moon contentedness was what he felt—warmth and security in a weird way.
The added bonus of seeing another aspect of Devon's personality, one that matched the enthusiasm he usually saved for the bedroom—minus the yelling and heckling— was also amusing. Plus, when Devon's Saints did win he was always horny as hell.
But back to Scott's feelings about Devon.
Because of his stalkerish behavior, Scott had a lot of time to contemplate the hotness that was Devon DuCaine. And wasn't life entirely unfair at times? Scott wasn't necessarily jealous or in mind-numbing awe of the six feet of ropey, toned, manly man, not at all. Sure his bubble butt could stop a truck, his sweet, crooked smile could charm even the grumpiest of cats, and any woman or man would certainly be jealous of those bottomless, brown, doe eyes hidden behind exquisitely long, charcoal lashes.
Scott wished he had any sort of creative prowess so he could draw or paint Devon's image. Then Scott could look at him all the time.
But seriously, did any of those things really matter in life? Yes. Unfortunately, Scott had found out long ago that they did. And the differences in their appearances were truly intriguing. He couldn’t remember ever being attracted to any guys with long hair before, let alone disheveled ones who'd stepped out of some hot, disheveled men's calendar. Simply put, they’d never caused much of a blip on his radar, not in any kind of a “wonder if I have a chance with him” way. But there was something to be said—and drooled over—about the chestnut waves that flowed over broad shoulders or formed a secure knot at the back of Devon's head.
Now Scott was unequivocally into guys with flowing hair—or was it just Devon’s hairiness? Apparently, he lusted after guys younger than him too. Devon's age was another mystery that Scott hadn't been brave enough to solve yet. He guessed his guy was in his mid-twenties—roughly ten years younger than Scott’s thirty-four years.
If Scott had to describe Devon in sporting terms, he'd be the catch of any day.
But when it came to Scott…well, Scott was three inches—three and three-quarters—shorter than Devon, with nary a muscle to be had unless the engorged one between his ears counted. He wasn't a one-hundred-pound weakling by any stretch of the imagination and wouldn't take first or even second place in any ugly contest, but his physical attributes didn't hold a candle to a walking bundle of sex. With blond hair the unattractive color of dishwater, dull hazel—not quite dark enough to be brown but too dark to be a pretty shade of green—and amber eyes hidden behind thick lenses, and a pointy chin that would never in a million years be described as granite or marble, Scott was, well…just Scott.
It all added up to Devon being so far out of Scott's league, he was in completely the wrong ballpark, and that kept the wheels of insecurity spinning wildly in Scott's head. He was a thinker; a thinker to the point of obsessive-compulsiveness.
“You think too much, especially so early on a Sunday morning.” Devon's eyelids slid open, revealing pretty eyes hazy with sleep, along with the telltale signs of slumber still creasing one side of his face, and a tangled mess of hair that surely out-messed his usual casually-messed 'do. He was beautiful. He smiled and Scott went weak in the knees again.
“Oh, um good…good morning. I was just…just wondering if you wanted, you know, breakfast.” Good answer, Scott. Geez.
Devon’s full lips curved into something totally beautiful. He cocked his head, sweeping away the unruly lock of hair that fell half over his face, his ever-present assortment of bracelets jangling in the quiet. “Have you ever worn contacts? You've got beautiful eyes.” Scott shook off the compliment, but the intenseness of Devon's gaze held him hostage. “I'm serious. When I look at you I'm never sure what I'll get—yellow with green, green with yellow. They're stunning.”
Scott did not swoon like some 1940's starlet. He definitely did not. But even if he did, he was also struck with a revelation. Devon's out-of-the-blue comment gave Scott another evidentiary argument and reasonable excuse for his morning stalking, for his closeness in general—without his glasses he couldn't see five inches in front of his stupid face.
But before he could properly pat himself on the back for sorting out this new evidence in his defense, Devon slid an arm from beneath the covers, snagged Scott's hand and dragged him oh so not gracefully onto the bed. He landed with a sputtered oof smack on top of the sleep-warm muscled body.
“Good morning,” Devon purred. Oh, have mercy, yes. Scott was positive he purred. He freaking purred! The scratch of Devon's permanent five o'clock sent shivers zipping down Scott's spine. Devon arched a brow and offered a smug expression. “Happy Sunday.”
As Scott suffered another brain blip, Devon kissed him, tenderly but determined—a kiss that said, “Good morning,” “Good afternoon”, “Good evening,” Good everything.” Scott moaned without hesitation when Devon's rough hand slid into his hair and he was enticed closer. If there was any other place or moment where Scott would happily die, he didn't have a clue where or when that would be. His body buzzed from head to toe as he helplessly sank into the kiss, fully relaxing on top of Devon. He even smelled good in the morning—oh.
Scott pulled away with a gasp, clapping a hand over his mouth and running his tongue over his woolly teeth. “Ugh, morning breath. I'm sorry.”
“I'm not,” was the reply. Instead, Devon pulled Scott's hand away and scratched the top of Scott's head the way he liked. Scott did not purr. He did not. “Let me tell you a secret,” Devon hummed, low and gravelly. “If we both have the same breath, it cancels out, man. Besides, you taste damn good to me. No matter what.”
And there it was ladies and gentlemen—the relentless charm that oozed from Devon DuCaine. How could a weak-kneed, fuzzy-brained, nerd-by-choice guy like Scott Weston refuse to fall back into bed with his Adonis? He couldn't. So he did.
CHAPTER TWO
After being coerced back between the sheets with Devon—not that it had taken even a smidge of arm-twisting—Scott finally got up to have a quick shower then shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee and boil water for Devon's herbal tea. It had surprised him at first, the strong, calloused hands wrapped around a delicate cup of green or oolong tea, but now it was simply another curiosity surrounding the enigmatic man. He was a lesson in contradictions on so many levels, from the tea he drank to his preferences in the bedroom. He was still all Alpha male, but bottoming excited him as much as running the show. Except, weren't bossy bottoms in charge anyhow?
Regardless, Devon's preferences with Scott had been a surprising and welcome revelation. History had proven that the men he'd slept with rarely wanted him to top. Apparently he suited the stereotypical bottom catcher to a T. Whatever. People had always put him in little distinctive boxes, whether it was his appearance, his job, or his sexual preferences.
While he waited for their beverages to brew, Scott sat down at the little desk in his kitchen nook. Sunday mornings undoubtedly took the prize for best time of the week when Devon was part of equation. It was the only time Scott let himself off the hook with regards to all the boring chores he obsessively scheduled. Seven pairs of underwear, seven pairs of socks, a pair of jeans and three button-down shirts not getting washed on their predestined Sunday would not mean the end of the world.
At least that's what Scott told himself when he added a special red star to that particular task on his weekly list. He'd throw caution to the wind and wash
them on Monday night. When had he become such a rebel? Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have extra clothes, and it helped that his dress shirts and suits had already been collected from the dry cleaners. He prided himself on being completely organized in that way—with one set of work clothes always kept aside while the other three were at the cleaners on their scheduled day.
It was the epitome of anal retentiveness, but it was a part of Scott. It was who he was.
As a teenager, he'd tried unsuccessfully to change the patterns and habits that oftentimes ruled—ruined—his life. He'd only wanted to fit in, to have friends that didn't make fun of everything he did. He'd fought against his very nature, determined to be normal, but the steely grip of obsessive-compulsive disorder and anxiety had always wiggled its way back into his life. It had taken years and a lot of therapy to finally accept himself for what he was, who he was.
He was fortunate that his OCD didn’t force him to turn lights off and on five times in a row, or compel him to lock his door four times when he went out. He knew people whose battle with OCD kept them from even leaving the house, from living a full life, so insisting on having things a certain way and making lists for absolutely everything was a much easier road to tread. He preferred to think his obsessiveness added to the quirkiness of character, at least that’s what he tried to tell himself.
Scott red-starred the other two chores that got left by the wayside on Devon Sundays—vacuuming and calling his parents. Most people might not consider a phone call to their relatives a chore, but they undoubtedly weren't acquainted with Scott's familial unit.
The full-on press of Devon's torso to Scott's back snapped the lid closed on the rambling thoughts in his brain. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and quickly shoved the partially crossed-off list under the closest pad of paper. Devon's outdoor, motor oil, Old Spice scent surrounded Scott pleasurably.