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Golden Hour || Ch. 7
[Bob Floyd x Bradley Bradshaw x OC]
A Bob Floyd & Bradley Bradshaw AU [Hart of Dixie inspired]
Synopsis: Willow, Georgia. Barely even a town, just a speck on a map that you tried to wipe off, mistaking it for a crumb. You’re the outsider: a fancy New York doctor, fresh out of a failed engagement, with zero primary care experience. You’re also the new town doctor, taking over for a recent retiree who was beloved. His son, Bob Floyd, is the other physician at the practice, and takes an immediate dislike to you. But you were looking for a fresh start, and Willow doesn’t seem all that bad if you can get past the fact that there's only one restaurant in town. It helps that you've caught the eye of Bradley Bradshaw, the town attorney, despite the fact that you vowed to take a break from dating. How long until you start to make friends in a town where social circles have been set in stone since elementary school? And what will it take to make Bob Floyd see you’re not as bad as he wants to believe you are?
Pairing: Bob Floyd x OC; Bradley Bradshaw x OC
Tropes: Love triangle, enemies to lovers
Warnings: Alcohol, angst, cursing
Chapter summary: Olive spends Thanksgiving with the Bradshaws; Olive and Bradley's relationship takes a turn
WC: 2K
Masterlist here; previous chapter here; next chapter here
“Dr. James, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
You swiveled around in your chair. Molly stood at the door, holding an armful of supplies to replenish the cabinet to your right. “I’m not sure,” you replied. “Why?”
“I was hoping we’d be closed,” she said, unloading the bandages into the cabinet. “My boyfriend and I are supposed to visit his parents down in Marietta.”
“You can have it off either way,” you replied and Molly grinned.
“So you call the shots now?” Bob stood in the doorway of your office, wearing a sweater with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of khakis and brown dress shoes.
You rolled your eyes. “Give the girl the day off, Floyd.”
“We’re closed on Thanksgiving, Molly,” he said and she stood up, smiling.
“Thank you!” She tossed her arms around Bob as he stood solid like a statue in the doorframe, before scampering down the hallway.
You leaned back in your chair with a smirk. “Softie.”
“What are your plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Don’t have any,” you replied. “Unless you’re inviting me over.”
Bob looked startled. “I, uh—”
You laughed but it was dry. “Don’t worry, Floyd, I’m not inviting myself over. I have more tact than that.” You stood up, smoothing your short skirt. “I won’t impose. Sure I’ll be able to find something to do.”
Bob’s gaze hardened. “I’m sure Bradshaw would have you over.”
“Bradley?” You shook your head. “I’m sure he has plans.”
Bob nodded. “Bradshaw family Thanksgiving is legendary. I’ve been a few times. His parents do a catered dinner.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him.”
Bob lingered. There was something about the way he wasn’t moving, as if words were stuck in his throat, thick like gravy on a biscuit.
You cocked your head to one side. “Something else I can help you with?”
His blue eyes turned to you. “No.” He pivoted on one heel, heading down the hallway, the soft clack of his dress shoes on the wood floor fading into the distance. You frowned before picking up the phone and pressing Bradley’s contact.
“Hey, it’s me,” you said into the speaker. “Listen, about Thanksgiving.”
***
“Mothers don’t like me,” you whispered as you and Bradley made your way up the steps toward the stone mansion on the end of the road. “Just a warning.”
Bradley chuckled. “I doubt that, Doc. What’s not to like?”
You shrugged. “I say too much or I say too little. And when I do talk it’s about medicine. I’m too competitive. I can’t cook. I curse. I wear too short of skirts.” You adjusted your skirt over the thin tights and cursed yourself for wearing a pair of stilettos. The Bradshaws were going to think you were a prostitute.
“My mother likes no one and pretends to like everyone,” Bradley replied. “Besides, it’s a party, Doc. Not some intimate dinner. You’ll be able to blend in with the crowd, I promise.”
“If you leave me alone for more than five minutes I’m going to get blackout drunk,” you warned.
Bradley laughed, reaching out and ringing the doorbell. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The large wood door swung open. “Mother,” he said.
“Bradley, dear.” She was small, so thin beneath her sweater set, and Bradley had to stoop down to kiss her on the cheek. She held her arms out to you. “And you must be Olivia.”
“Olive,” Bradley corrected. “Dr. James.”
“Ooh, doctor?” His mother raised her plucked eyebrows.
You smiled. “Olive is fine. Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Bradshaw.”
“Carole,” she replied. “Come in.”
The Bradshaws had more money than half of Georgia from the looks of it. A soaring two-story foyer with a curved staircase that crawled up one wall, checkered black and white tile floors in the entryway, an enormous wooden paneled library to your left. The house was warm and smelled like Baccarat Rouge and echoed with voices and Southern accents. You raised your eyebrows at Bradley. “You’re Southern royalty, aren’t you?”
He blushed, hard. “No.”
“Come on.” You grabbed his arm. “Spill.”
“My father was the governor,” he confessed and your eyes went wide, like saucers. “There he is.” Bradley tipped his head toward the seven-foot tall fireplace against one wall where a group of men were laughing. You spotted him immediately. Tall, muscular, mustache that rivaled Tom Selleck’s. He was handsome as hell. A part of you did the mental math and realized that Bradley would age well.
Very well.
“Come on,” Bradley said, moving toward the center of the room. “I need a drink.”
Against one wall, there was a makeshift bar. “Wine, please,” you said.
“What type of wine?” the bartender asked. “We have Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot, Pinot from the Loire—”
You cut him off with a thick sob. “Oh my God. Real wine.”
Bradley practically snorted. “Yes, Olive, outside of Willow there actually does exist wine where the label doesn’t just say white box or red.”
You shook your head with elation. “Sancerre, please.”
“And you, sir?”
“Manhattan, no rocks.”
You leaned against the bar and surveyed the room. It was tastefully decorated. Now you knew why Bradley’s house was so well done. “You could have warned me,” you whispered.
“And said what?”
“I don’t know, that you’re Mr. Georgia?”
Bradley laughed, a throaty chuckle, one hand finding the small of your back, leading you deeper into the room. Clumps of well dressed people stood in packs scattered throughout the large expanse of the living room. “Sometimes I forget that you don’t know things, Olive. Everyone in Willow knows everything about each other. It’s hard to remember that you’re starting from a blank slate.”
“What else am I missing?” you asked.
“Well, that’s my brother, Jordan.” Bradley pointed to a tall, dark and handsome man holding hands with a slim brunette. “And his wife Jodi. And their son James is somewhere. Probably praying pranks on the dog.” You grinned. “If you go upstairs and turn left and open the fourth door on the right you’ll see an embarrassing amount of trophies from little league.”
“I know where I’m sneaking off to after dinner,” you teased.
“I’ll meet you up there.” You swatted Bradley’s arm with your free hand and he laughed. A shadow appeared in front of the two of you.
“Son.”
“Dad.” Bradley was a full inch shorter than his father, and that was a feat. “This is Dr. Olive James.”
“Just Olive is fine,” you said, holding out a hand. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”
He grinned, shaking your hand tightly. His grip was a vice. “Nick Bradshaw. Friends call me Goose.”
“Goose?”
“Don’t ask,” Bradley whispered.
“Best shot in the state,” Nick said, dropping your hand. “You a hunter, Doctor?”
“Does looking for deals in Soho count?” The joke fell flat on Nick, who had a stony look in his eye. “Sorry, no. Never been.”
“You’ll have to join us sometime,” he said. “Bradley, invite her to the lake house. We’re going next week.”
“You don’t have to,” Bradley whispered.
You smiled. “That’s very nice, thank you.”
Goose tipped his head. “My son here really under sold how pretty you were. In a town like Willow I’m sure you’re turning heads.”
You blushed and Bradley shook his head. “Dad, come on. Let her at least finish her drink before you turn on the charm.”
Goose grinned. “Can’t help it, son.”
“It’s flattering,” you replied. “But I only came to Willow a few months ago. Still adjusting.”
“What’s there to adjust to?” A voice to your right entered and you turned, Bradley’s brother Jordan joining the circle. His eyes leered over you. “Nothing in Willow but two sticks to rub together.”
“Olive,” Bradley said, his voice icing over. “This is my brother Jordan. Jordan, this is Dr. Olive James.”
“Doctor?” Jordan raised his thick eyebrows. “How come there were never any docs like you when I have to go to my checkups?”
“OK, we’re leaving,” Bradley said, putting one hand on your back and steering you toward the patio doors at the back of the room. The two of you spilled out onto the paved patio that overlooked a manicured garden not unlike Versailles. “Sorry about him, he’s a dick.”
You laughed. “That’s OK. I understand.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“No.” You paused. “But my fiancé did.”
“Fiancé?” Bradley went pale.
“Sorry, ex-fiance,” you clarified.
“You’ve never mentioned.”
“He cheated and I left. Not much to say,” you replied.
“I’m sorry.” Bradley paused. “Is that why you left New York?”
You nodded. “We worked together.”
“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Sounds like a real dick.”
You laughed, the sound chiming out into the quiet evening. “Not wrong.”
“Did you love him?” he asked.
You frowned. “Yes. But I don’t know if I was ever in love with him. Not the way that I should have been. I was just too caught up in everything to realize it.”
Bradley stepped closer, pressing one hand to your cheek. “I like you, Olive. A lot. And I know you said you weren’t looking to start anything, but—”
“I like you, too, Bradley,” you interrupted, the heat of his hand cupping your skin warming you from the outside in.
He smiled, bending down, pressing his lips to yours softly. You closed your eyes, letting Bradley flood your senses.
When the two of you broke apart, you grinned, sliding one hand up into his curls, pulling him back down, sealing your lips over his. Bradley’s large hands wound around your waist, tugging you in close, pressing your body to his.
“Let’s blow off dinner,” he whispered.
“But it’s Thanksgiving,” you replied. “Won’t your family care if we ditch them?”
“I don’t care,” Bradley murmured. “I want you all to myself.”
“Bradshaw,” you said quietly, “are you hitting on me?”
“You bet your sweet ass I am.”
“OK, let’s go.”
Back at Bradley’s house, you slipped off your heels as Bradley poured two glasses of wine. You heard him mutter and curse under his breath.
“Everything OK?” you called out.
“Yeah, fine,” he shouted back. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You wandered down the hallway to Bradley’s bedroom, edging open the door. It was familiar, from the night after the Halloween party. The room was blanketed in darkness and you strolled over to the window, glass of wine in one hand, spreading the curtains, letting the moonlight flood in.
Across the yard, Bob stood at his window, illuminated lightly and golden from a lamp behind him. You raised your hand in a wave and so did he. Opening the window, you perched on the sill. “Hey.”
Bob opened his window, leaning his head out to his shoulders. “Hi.”
You frowned. “This was your big Thanksgiving plan? Standing at the window looking forlorn?”
He shook his head. “I had dinner with my father, but I left early. He was tired.”
“Oh.” You paused. “How, um, how is he doing?”
“Not too well,” Bob replied softly.
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s very sweet.”
Bob looked up. “Weren’t you at the Bradshaw’s party?” he asked.
“Yeah, we were, but.” You trailed off, taking a sip of wine to fill the silence.
Bob’s eyes went wide with realization. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” you said but you weren’t sure why. It just felt like the right thing to say.
“Why are you sorry?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” In the distance, you heard footsteps. “I should go.”
Bob nodded. “Goodnight, Olive.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” you replied softly, shifting off of the window sill, feet landing on the floor with a soft thump. You closed the window gently, and Bob mirrored your actions across the narrow garden.
“Doc?” Bradley’s voice carried through the open door. You turned and smiled.
“Hi,” you whispered.
He stepped in closer, winding one arm around your waist. “So. Where did we leave off?”
“I think somewhere around here,” you replied, leaning forward, pressing your lips to his. Bradley’s other arm found the back of your head, supporting you as he tipped you backward in a kiss, one of your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, your fingertips gripping his biceps.
In the heat of it all, you forgot to pull the curtains shut.
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