Abstract Love
Abstract Love
M/M Romance
Sara Dobie Bauer
Copyright
Cover Artist: Natasha Snow Designs
Abstract Love © 2020 Sara Dobie Bauer
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
Mention of depression, suicidal ideations, biphobia
Heat level: explicit
Trademarks
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Dedication
To Renee, for her word requests and beloved chaos.
Contents
Abstract Love
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
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Synopsis
I hate Sam Shelby. So why do I want to kiss him?
Sam never expected to move back to Cleveland.
Donovan never expected to be attracted to a man.
Well, shit happens.
After high school, Sam Shelby moved to New York. Eight years later, he returns to Cleveland and lands a job at the best ad firm in town. It would be the perfect gig, if his boss weren’t such an ass.
After his wife leaves him, Donovan Cooper questions everything. The arrival of a young, arrogant, gifted graphic designer at Donovan’s firm is the last straw.
Tempers flare over office gossip, and following a nasty argument and scathing kiss, Donovan flails away from heterosexuality while Sam struggles to keep his “no relationship” rule intact.
Despite ugly socks, fiery fights, and their best intentions to not fall in love, these bull-headed coworkers can’t deny their chemistry. Donovan seeks happiness while Sam seeks success, but is there room for more?
***ABSTRACT LOVE is a 71,000 word enemies to lovers romantic comedy with an age gap.
Abstract Love
Chapter 1
Donovan
He was in no way a fashion expert, but Donovan Cooper knew a ridiculous ensemble when he saw one. He assumed the kid had to be from some delivery service because no one in corporate advertising wore skinny jeans tucked into their socks. No one at Stoker & Steele could get away with an oversized sweater with blue and yellow butterflies flocking its shoulders. And nope, no one at Donovan’s office sported bedhead to work.
The sound of high heels on marble foreshadowed Donovan’s assistant’s arrival. “Oh, there’s Sam Shelby,” she said.
Donovan glared back at her. Monica had been his assistant for close to fourteen years, ever since he landed his first advertising gig, postcollege. At first, she’d been like a mother to him, over a decade his senior. Now, they behaved as equals although she still kicked his leg under tables if he was being an ass.
As Director of Creative Development, he was expected to be an ass, but he could not believe what he’d just heard. “That’s our new graphic designer? What is he, twelve?”
She smiled the way a mother smiles at a small, misbehaving child. “He’s twenty-six, I think, although I see what you mean. All the interns are already going crazy.”
Donovan glanced back at the kid… er… man in question. “Why? Because his sweater is so ugly?”
Monica clicked her tongue and shoved a file in his direction. “Because he’s pretty, Donovan. Women like pretty things.”
What did that even mean? Men weren’t supposed to be pretty. Men were supposed to be butch, beefy, nerdy, ugly, et cetera—but not pretty. Big business meeting an hour away, and Donovan already felt a headache creeping up his spine. He backed into his office, but Monica followed him and pressed a cup of coffee into his hand.
“Drink up,” she said. “I want you chipper for the Progressive Field meeting.”
He groaned and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. From there, he had an excellent view of downtown Cleveland with a frozen Lake Erie in the background. Ohio winter in full January effect, Donovan couldn’t remember the sun.
“Chipper!” Monica ordered. He noticed she’d dressed up for the meeting in a form-fitting blue business suit that made her bright-orange hair pop. Beyond the weird hair, he knew she had a huge, detailed fox tattoo on her right arm, hidden under long sleeves. She looked a lot younger than nearing fifty. Some days, he suspected she bathed in virgin blood.
Even though the morning’s meeting was only interoffice, it was still a big deal. Landing Progressive Field, home to the Cleveland Indians, would be a huge accomplishment for Stoker & Steele. There were plenty of advertising firms in the city planning to pitch the monster moneymaker, but Stoker & Steele was big. Their only realistic competition was Winshaw Creative, and… well, Donovan didn’t want to think about them.
He sipped his coffee, muttered, “Chipper,” and thumbed through the list of companies that sponsored the Indians. His design team would have to work with all of them, and that team now included an award-winning graphic designer who recently moved from New York City and dressed like a hungover frat boy.
Donovan liked being the last person into the conference room. It allowed his colleagues to talk about him behind his back before he got there. They deserved as much, considering how grumpy he’d been since his wife started moving forward with their divorce—not that anyone but Monica knew about that. They probably just assumed he was getting grumpier with age.
He’d been grumpy for a lot of reasons, honestly, but no time to ponder all of them since, at Monica’s direction, he was expected to be “chipper,” which was the Donovan equivalent of telling a hungry wolverine to just fucking relax.
Indeed, every one of his designers hushed and sat up straighter when he entered. Donovan was hard to miss. Not only did he prefer expensive suits, but, years ago, he’d also been a college-level track star at Cleveland State University who’d missed out on a trip to the Olympics by .06 seconds.
“Morning, everyone,” he said, tossing papers onto the long, lacquered table. The room glowed gray as a cloud-laden sky reflected the far-off lake through the large windows that Donovan had thought—on more than one occasion—of running through. The advertising firm was fourteen stories up, so it’d be an easy way to go. “We have a lot of ground to cover today, as you know. Progressive Field wants a whole new look for the upcoming baseball season. They want the outfield to shine with new sponsor billboards, so we’ll start by going over each s
ponsor one by one and assign teams to work on pitches. We’re not the only firm going after Progressive, so we have to be at the top of our game if we want to land the contract, which, may I remind you, is huge.”
Monica cleared her throat. “You might want to introduce Sam?”
Donovan sighed. “Oh.” He glanced down the long table, and the young designer was easy to spot, considering he was the only person not wearing, at minimum, business casual. He also had a sketchbook in one hand, a pencil in the other. Sam’s dark eyebrows went up at the mention of his name. “Right,” Donovan said. “This is Sam Shelby, the newest addition to our team.”
Sam leaned forward in his seat. He smiled and gave a little wave but didn’t say anything.
Great, so Donovan could get on with the meeting. “First company we need to impress: Progressive Insurance, obviously, since their name is on the field.” Donovan slid into a leather chair and started talking about insurance and image and blah-blah-blah. Everyone listened and remained motionless, because Donovan Cooper was terrifying—everyone but Sam Shelby, who drew in his sketchbook and occasionally tilted his head this way and that. Maybe he listened, or maybe he had a song in his head. Donovan already had a short fuse, shorter now with his imminent divorce, so he finally snapped, “I’m sorry, Sam, are we interrupting something?”
“No,” Sam said, totally nonchalant. He had a surprisingly raspy voice for a guy who looked pretty. Okay, so maybe Monica was right; dudes could be pretty. “It’s just…” He leaned his head back and tapped the pencil on his sketchbook. “With Progressive’s ad campaign, I feel like we’re all tired of looking at Flo.”
Flo, a snarky fictional character, had been the face of Progressive for years, and Donovan was loath to admit that, yes, he was sick of looking at Flo. Not that he was going to give Sam the pleasure of being right. Donovan opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Sam kept talking.
“There’s this new abstract exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art. It’ll be there for the next nine months, so I was thinking we could, like, add a local twist to Flo that would link Progressive to Cleveland in a visual way and give some free press to the museum.” He shrugged. “It’ll make Progressive look artsy and shit, and cool at the same time.”
Nobody cussed in Stoker & Steele meetings, which Donovan was about to point out when Sam leaned forward, put his sketchbook on the conference table, and pushed, sliding the damn thing the length of the room until its edge smacked into Donovan’s elbow.
Everyone around the table blinked.
If the table had eyes, the table would have blinked.
Donovan wanted to grimace and glare—his usual resting facial expression—but when he looked down, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Sam had drawn a picture of Flo with her brown hair, glittery grin, and red lips, but Flo if Picasso’s more talented little brother had gotten ahold of her.
It was…
It was…
Goddamn it.
It was brilliant.
Donovan looked up, and Sam Shelby smiled.
Monica scurried behind him to keep up in her high heels. Donovan waved the abstract drawing of Flo in the air. (Sam said he could keep it; it’d only taken him twenty minutes.) “Why did we hire this kid again?”
“Not a kid,” she huffed. “Twenty-six.”
“Why did we hire this arrogant twenty-six-year-old again?” He slammed through his office door and didn’t bother holding it for Monica, who tripped in behind him.
“Because he’s sought after nationwide. He’s been working in New York City since he stepped off NYU’s campus, and who knows why he picked Cleveland of all places to look for a job?” She pushed hair out of her face, her artful updo from earlier now a mess thanks to their sprint down the hall. “We’re lucky he didn’t go to Winshaw. They were apparently his second choice. And you were in Sam’s hiring meetings. We interviewed fifteen candidates, and he was the one everyone wanted! The competition wasn’t even close to his credentials.”
Fifteen candidates? Donovan barely recalled. Sure, he’d been there physically, but he’d been distracted lately. He was always distracted, mostly by images of his best friend fucking his soon-to-be ex-wife. It panicked him a little that he hadn’t remembered Sam. Donovan was only thirty-seven. Early-onset dementia?
He slumped into his office chair and tossed the drawing of abstract Flo toward the corner of his desk. “Let me guess. Did he wear a hoodie to his interview?”
Monica sighed. “Are you okay?”
“What?” he snapped.
She sat in the chair across from him and placed her palms on his desk. “Donovan, you’re always wound tight, but you’ve been wound really tight lately.”
“Yeah, well, you try going through a divorce.”
“I did. Twice.” She pressed her lips together.
He rubbed his fingers across his forehead and closed his eyes. “Jesus, I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not all right, Donovan. You need to acknowledge that you’re not all right. Maybe you should take some time off.”
He snorted. “Right. We’re trying to land Progressive Field, and I take time off? Are you nuts?”
“It’s been suggested. I do work for you.”
“Har-har. I’m not taking time off.”
“Fine.” She stood and adjusted her pencil skirt. “I know you’re a jerk. I’ve always known you’re a jerk, but promise you won’t make Sam Shelby your next victim. The company is stagnant and needs fresh blood, and nobody in advertising is fresher than that kid.”
Donovan smirked. “I thought you said he wasn’t a kid.”
“Well, he is to me. Buck up. Things could be worse. You could be dead.”
“I wish,” he muttered too low for her to hear.
The door swished shut behind her, and as much as he did not want to, Donovan leaned forward and picked up Sam’s drawing.
At Cleveland State, Donovan had majored in advertising when not running track. What people didn’t know? He’d minored in art. Once upon a time, he’d fancied himself a painter until one of his business professors told him there was no money—no future—in art. (At the time, Donovan’s father had pretty much said the same.)
In the privacy of his own home, though, Donovan still painted, but it was his secret thing. Even his wife, Anna, knew very little about what her husband did in the back room of their huge apartment in downtown Cleveland. Donovan knew art, so he knew something special when he saw it.
“Damn it,” he said, because insubordination notwithstanding, Sam was what Stoker & Steele had been waiting for.
Chapter 2
Sam
Sam Shelby did the requisite shaking of hands, smiling, and small talk postmeeting before retreating to his shiny, new office at Stoker & Steele. He closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and let out a big breath of air before giggling like a little girl.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered, still laughing. He kicked away from the door and hustled to his desk. He’d barely unpacked. His large office was still filled with boxes from his last design job in New York, but he found a sketchbook quickly enough. He had a sixth sense for locating sketchbooks by then, along with charcoal pencils.
Standing up, he leaned halfway across his desk, propped himself up on one elbow, and began to draw. He started with those eyes: so freaking angry and pointed right at him. He didn’t have time to search for his pencils to add a shade of brown, so he just made the eyes dark instead. Then, the forehead, regal and tall when not crinkled in annoyance. Sam’s hand moved fast like it always did when he drew, chasing the rapid movements of his brain. On the paper, he carved out that strong jaw and those lips, parted in a sneer. Finally, the hair, longer on top and practically shaved on the sides.
Sam leaned back to admire his work, and Donovan Cooper’s grumpy mug stared up at him. Around the advertising world, he’d heard about Donovan, obviously, prior to accepting the job. Sam had only met him once at his interview, and Donovan had barely spoken, ba
rely looked at him—just twirled his wedding ring and frowned.
Sam’s immediate response to Donovan at his interview? Ding, ding, ding! Hot boss alert! And Donovan Cooper would be extremely hot with that tall, athletic build if he didn’t look so miserable. Donovan was also easy to piss off, as though “Spoiling for a Fight” was actually his job title as opposed to Director of Creative Development and Sam’s immediate boss.
Sam knew giving up his fancy job in New York had been a bit mad, but he had his reasons. Now, he had a super attractive jerk of a boss, and Sam did love to push buttons, especially if those buttons were attached to a hot older guy.
Speaking of, his cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. Sam took a glance and smiled. It was Jamie, wishing him a great first day. Sam had only been in Cleveland for two weeks, but he’d already found a regular male fuck buddy and managed to go home with a few women too. It was all so easy, looking the way he did, but he was also unique, a mystical Big Apple boy who wore weird clothes and was prettier than most runway models.