Carter Baizen was exactly the kind of man you hated. Cocky, smooth-talking, always smirking like he knew a secret you didn’t. Unfortunately, he was also the man standing in front of your door in a tux, leaning casually against the frame like he owned the building.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You’re my escort?”

Carter’s grin widened. “Nice to see you too, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’ll make you look good tonight.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. Of all the agencies your boss could’ve hired for the fundraiser, it had to be him — Carter Baizen, Upper East Side’s most charming disaster. The man was a walking headline: Trust fund playboy. Scandal magnet. Irresistible mistake.

“I don’t need you to make me look good,” you snapped, stepping past him. “Just keep your mouth shut and follow my lead.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, falling into step beside you. “Following your lead sounds… thrilling.”

You ignored the heat creeping up your neck.

At the event, Carter slipped effortlessly into character — hand at the small of your back, whispering quips in your ear just loud enough to make your heart skip. He charmed everyone: your boss, your colleagues, even the mayor’s wife. And the worst part? You couldn’t deny he was good at it.

Then came the champagne incident.

One of your coworkers — the kind who never stopped bragging about her fiancé — made a snide comment about how you’d never bring someone like that to a high-society event. Before you could respond, Carter leaned in, his voice low and velvet-smooth.

“That’s funny,” he said, flashing that dangerous smile. “Because I can’t imagine anyone better than her.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Your coworker stammered something and walked away. You turned to Carter, stunned.

“Why would you say that?” He shrugged. “Because it’s true.”

The air between you changed after that. You tried to keep your distance, but every time he looked at you, every time his fingers brushed yours, your composure cracked a little more.

When the night ended, Carter offered you his hand as you stepped out of the car. You were supposed to thank him and go upstairs. Instead, you lingered — eyes meeting, breaths uneven.

“You really are insufferable,” you said quietly. He smirked. “Maybe. But you don’t hate me as much as you think you do.”