ACCIDENTALLY IN MATRIMONY

Cassie Meets Greyson

It had been a hectic day for Cassie. Besides juggling a million tasks as her father's Social Media Manager at Hunter Enterprises a job she genuinely enjoyed despite what everyone assumed about nepotism,she was determined to plan her entire wedding alone. No help, no meddling, not even from her mother, who had been dropping hints about "proper wedding planners" since the engagement announcement hit the society pages three months ago. She wanted to prove she wasn't some damsel in distress, wasn't just another trust fund princess playing at having a career. To cap it off, she now raced to a 3:00 PM meeting with the country's top real estate firm, desperate to find the perfect venue for her reception. Cassie Hunter was never late punctuality was one of the few things her father had drilled into her as a kid that she actually appreciated.

The morning had started with a crisis over their biggest client's I*******m campaign, followed by two conference calls with influencers who thought they could negotiate their contracts mid-campaign. Then her maid of honor had called in tears about her dress fitting, her florist had informed her that magnolia's were "absolutely impossible" to source in June, and her fiancé Jake had texted to cancel their lunch date. Again. The third time this month.

Normally, she'd use the company car and driver a sensible black sedan that screamed "corporate responsibility." But today she'd opted for her Panamera Turbo GTS, the one purchase that had made her father nearly choke on his morning coffee. Masculine? Maybe. But she loved its bold statement, the way it purred beneath her hands, the way it made her feel powerful when everything else in her life felt carefully orchestrated by someone else.

The downtown traffic had been murder, construction blocking two lanes on Pritchard Street, and she'd had to circle the block twice to find parking. Her heels clicked an urgent staccato against the marble as she strode into GC Holdings' sleek lobby, praying that she didn't fall,all glass and steel and intimidating modern art that probably cost more than most people's houses. She checked her watch 2:58 PM. Close, but she'd made it.

The elevator doors parted like theater curtainsand time froze.

Greyson Christianson stood inside, one shoulder propped against the mirrored wall with the casual confidence of a man who owned the world. Dark blond hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, storm-gray blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her carefully constructed armor, a powder-blue dress shirt that clung to his athletic frame in a way that should be illegal. The society pages never did him justice their photos couldn't capture the magnetic pull of his presence, the way he seemed to command attention without even trying.

Their gazes locked across the small space, and her heart performed an Olympic-level somersault. Heat crawled up her neck, and she felt suddenly aware of every inch of her skin.

*Get a Cassie You're engaged. To Jake. Remember Jacob?*

She smoothed her powder-blue pencil dress—damn, they matched like some twisted couple's costume ,and marched to reception with all the dignity she could muster. Behind her, Greyson's low voice carried through the lobby, phone pressed to his ear in what sounded like a heated discussion about quarterly projections and market volatility. His eyes kept darting her way, though, and she felt each glance like a physical touch.

"I'm here for Meagan Christianson," she told the receptionist, a polished woman who looked like she moonlighted as a fashion model.

"Of course, Miss Hunter. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you. " Cassie perched on the edge of a leather chair that probably cost more than her car payment, checking her phone for messages. Jake's hadn't responded to her earlier text about dinner plans. She'd made reservations at Tony's for 7:30, assuming this property viewing would wrap up by six at the latest.

Other clients filtered in and out—a nervous young couple looking at starter homes, a sharp-suited businessman discussing commercial properties, an elderly woman with a small dog tucked under her arm who spoke in rapid-fire Spanish to her translator. Cassie watched them all get whisked away to their appointments while she sat, increasingly aware of Greyson's voice behind her, the way he laughed at something his caller said, rich and warm.

She pulled out her phone and texted Meagan: *Running late? It's 3:15.*

The reply came instantly: *OMG so sorry! Family emergency had to rush my nephew's school. My brother Greyson's covering your appointment. He's honestly the best at what he does, you're in great hands! Rain check on our wine date?*

Cassie read the message twice, then grimaced. The universe definitely had jokes. She'd specifically requested Meagan because she'd heard the woman was professional, no-nonsense, and happily married—none of the complications that came with mixing business and the kind of chemistry that made her forget her own name.

One by one, the remaining clients were collected by various realtors until only she remained in the lobby, fidgeting with her engagement ring and trying not to notice how Greyson's laugh made her stomach do strange things. Finally, blessedly, he ended his call and approached her

"Miss Cassandra Hunter?" His voice was even more devastating up close, with just a hint of gravel that suggested either too much whiskey or not enough sleep. Maybe both..

She stood, chin lifted in what she hoped looked like confidence rather than defiance.

"Cassie. And you're *Meagan's* brother?" She put just enough emphasis on the relationship to remind herself and him that this was supposed to be professional.

His smirk could have melted glaciers and probably had.

"Guilty as charged. Though I have to say, you're not quite what I expected." Those storm-gray eyes traveled over her with lazy appreciation.

"Preppy little socialite booking appointments at downtown nightclubs?"

She bristled, her professional mask slipping.

"The club hosted a charity auction for literacy programs. Meagan bid on my vintage Chanel bag the proceeds went to buying books for underfunded schools. Not that it's any of your business."

"Ah." His gaze raked over her again, slower this time, and she fought the urge to fidget.

"Still can't picture you slumming it with the common folk."

The condescension in his tone lit a fire in her chest.

"You know what? Let's just focus on why I'm here. I need to view three properties by five o'clock. I have dinner reservations at Tony's at seven-thirty, and I don't like to be late."

"Tony's?" He barked a laugh that held no humor. "How refreshingly predictable."

The elevator dinged its arrival, and they stepped inside together, the small space suddenly feeling microscopic. Tension crackled between them like live wires, and Cassie caught their reflection in the mirrored wall—matching blues, twin spots of color high on their cheeks, both of them standing rigid as soldiers. They looked like a twisted bridal photoshoot, all wrong angles and suppressed energy.

She was just opening her mouth to make some cutting remark about his customer service skills when the lights died.

The elevator car jerked violently, throwing them both off balance. Greyson crashed to the floor with a grunt as Cassie grabbed the handrail, her designer bag exploding like a piñata, sending lip gloss and snacks and breath mints scattering across the floor. Complete darkness swallowed them whole, thick and suffocating.

"Dammit!"

Greyson's voice cracked like a whip, all his smooth confidence evaporating. Fists pounded against metal.

"HELP! SOMEBODY GET US OUT OF HERE!"

The panic in his voice was raw, primal, nothing like the controlled businessman from moments before. Cassie's training from her college psychology classes kicked in she'd written her senior thesis on anxiety disorders, though she'd never expected to use that knowledge in a stalled elevator with the most infuriating man she'd ever met.

Her watch face glowed softly in the darkness. She fumbled for her phone, tapping the flashlight on, and the small space filled with harsh white light. Greyson was pressed against the corner, eyes wide with terror, chest heaving like he'd run a marathon.

"Breathe," she ordered, dropping to her knees beside him and grasping his shoulders. They were rock-solid with tension.

"In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. With me now."

He shuddered against her touch, and she could feel the fine tremor running through his frame. "Can't... the walls... they're..."

"You're safe," she said firmly, the way she'd learned to speak to spooked horses at her riding lessons. "I've got you. The space isn't getting smaller—your brain is just playing tricks. Focus on my voice."

His breathing was ragged, but slowly, gradually, it began to sync with hers. His scent filled her nostrils—expensive cologne with notes of citrus and cedar, mixed with something darker and more human. Fear sweat, vulnerability, the kind of raw honesty that money couldn't buy.

They slid to the floor together, her dress riding up her thighs, his perfectly pressed shirt wrinkled and damp with perspiration. She handed him her water bottle from the debris field of her purse.

"Drink," she commanded.

He drained half of it in desperate gulps, then paused to look at her.

"Selfish much?"

Despite everything, she snorted. "Says the man who was practically eye-fucking me in the lobby."

A beat of stunned silence. Then twin snorts of laughter, the kind that borders on hysteria but feels like salvation.

"How long?" she asked when they'd both sobered.

"Two hours minimum," Greyson admitted, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"Building's old, backup generators prioritize hospitals and emergency services. We're low on the list."

Cassie kicked off her heels with a sigh, wiggling her toes in relief. "Well, there goes Tony's. Jake is going to be thrilled." The sarcasm dripped from her voice like honey from a broken comb.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"Nothing I can't handle." She rummaged through her scattered belongings, looking for her lip balm. "Your turn. Why the elevator phobia? Childhood trauma? Bad horror movie?"

He stiffened, the walls slamming back up.

"None of your business, princess."

"Fine."

She found the lip balm and applied it slowly, aware of his eyes tracking the movement.

"But for future reference? Women don't bolt because you have some mysterious tragic backstory. They bolt because you're emotionally constipated and too proud to admit you're human."

"You..."

The lights flared back to life with shocking suddenness. The elevator lurched upward, and Cassie stumbled forward. Greyson's hand shot out instinctively to steady her, palm pressed against her palm, fingers interlaced. Electricity arced between them, white-hot and undeniable, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the point where their skin touched.

His thumb brushed across her knuckle—the spot where her engagement ring should have been sitting. Where it had been sitting, before her bag exploded and sent everything flying.

Cassie yanked her hand back as if burned, her eyes frantically scanning the floor. There her diamond solitaire glittered in his other palm, three carats of guilt and obligation catching the fluorescent light.

"Yours?"

His voice had gone rough, gravelly in a way that made her think of silk sheets and Sunday mornings.

She snatched the ring from his palm, their fingers brushing again in the exchange.

"None of your business."

She slipped it back onto her finger, and suddenly the familiar weight felt suffocating, like a shackle disguised as jewelry. The elevator dinged cheerfully as the doors opened to reveal frantic building staff, their faces creased with concern and relief.

Greyson stood smoothly, every inch the consummate professional again, as if the last hour had been a fever dream.

"Miss Hunter? Shall we proceed with your property viewing?"

Cassie gathered her scattered belongings, shoving everything back into her bag with hands that trembled just slightly. The ring caught on her dress as she stood, a reminder of promises made and futures planned by committee.

"Lead the way," she said, proud that her voice stayed steady.

As they walked toward the parking garage, she couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted in that dark, small space. Something that had nothing to do with real estate and everything to do with the way Greyson Christianson looked at her like he could see straight through to her soul.

Something Jake Turner her fiance hadn't done.