by
Pages: 365
Pages: 363
Scott Weston’s car is sensible, his suits are bland, and his job is stable but boring. Mundane routine helps keep his anxiety and obsessive tendencies under control. Socializing—especially dating—isn’t on his list of strong skills either, and, made worse with the echoes of his disapproving mother. So he’s content to stay at home with his lists and cleaning and wildlife documentaries, until a one-night stand goes unexpectedly right.
History has taught Devon DuCaine that dating can be uncomfortable, but there’s just something about Scott. He may be the opposite of Devon’s own long-haired, tattooed, free-wheeling spirit but he brings out the nurturer in Devon. Maybe it’s Scott’s surprising fascination with Devon’s motorcycle, or his shy surprise in moments of affection, but there’s more under those sensible suits than meets the eye. The most important person in Devon’s life, his mom, taught him love and compassion and that’s all he wants to share with Scott.
Their one-night stand turns into a regular thing, but Scott doesn’t trust it to last. He’s pretty sure Devon is hiding something. He’s even more sure that once Devon gets to know him, the attraction will fade. And then there’s his mother. However many sparks fly between them, Devon will have his work cut out to convince Scott they can have their happily ever after.
(This book was first published as 2 short stories, but this new version has double the content from the originals.)
- 3 To Be Read lists
Publisher: Independently Published
Editors:
Cover Artists:
Genres:
Pairings: M-M
Heat Level: 5
Romantic Content: 5
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Gay
Protagonist 1 Age: 36-45
Protagonist 2 Age: 36-45
Tropes: Bad Breakup, Famous / Not Famous, Geek and Jock, Hurt / Comfort, Opposites Attract
Word Count: 122000
Setting: Vancouver, BC, Canada
Languages Available: English
Series Type: Continuous / Same Characters
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.
READ MOREOf 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. Scottwas 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 nothave 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 interest, 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.
COLLAPSE
