As I stood at the side entrance, unsure of my place yet fully aware of my identity, I took a deep breath and stepped inside. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filled the air, a testament to the Harringtons’ attention to detail and penchant for perfection. A formidable woman with a sharp haircut and even sharper eyes greeted me. Jessica’s mother, no doubt.
“Ah, you must be Mr. Thompson,” she said, her tone barely concealing her judgment as her eyes flickered over my attire.
“I am,” I replied, extending my hand with a quiet confidence that belied the circumstances. “Pleasure to meet you.”
