Carson stood outside the large mahogany door, his palms damp with sweat. The cold air bit at his face as he shifted nervously on the front porch.
He had been here before—years ago—when things were different. Back then, the family inside had welcomed him with smiles and warm hands. But tonight, everything felt colder, heavier.
He adjusted his tie, trying to calm his pounding heart. Behind him, his car engine ticked softly, the only sound breaking the silence. He knocked. Once. Twice.
The door opened slowly. It was Mr. Hargrove, Bridget’s father. His gray eyes were sharp and unreadable. “Carson,” he said flatly.
Carson swallowed. “Good evening, sir. I… I came to speak with you. And Mrs. Hargrove. Please, just a few minutes.”
Mr. Hargrove’s jaw tightened. “You should not have come.”
“P
