Lifted was halfway through a bitter coffee in the dining hall the next morning when trouble arrived — barefoot, sun-kissed, and carrying trouble in a mason jar.
Charlotte slid into the seat across from him without asking. "You know, Grumpy, you really should branch out. That sludge you have in your cup doesn't count as breakfast."
"It's coffee," he corrected.
"It's depression in liquid form," she countered, stealing the packet of sugar from the table and ripping it open theatrically. "Here. Try some sweetness in your life," you at least deserve that.
He pushed the sugar back. "I prefer efficiency."
Charlotte tilted her head, trying to study him like he was a puzzle that she fully intends to solve. "Do you prefer efficiency or… do you just not know how to have fun?"
He took another sip, ignoring her. But ignoring Charlotte was like ignoring a fire alarm — impossible, loud, and guaranteed to get worse if unattended.
She leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Okay. Tell me something. When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Not work-related. Not scheduled. Just… reckless, you know"
He frowned. "Recklessness is for people with poor impulse control."
"Translation: never," she said, with her eyes glinting. "Wow. I've met Excel spreadsheets with more personality."
He should have let it slide. He should have returned to his laptop and tuned her out. Instead, the words slipped before he could stop them.
"I can be spontaneous."
"Oh? Prove it," she said, as she spread her grin slowly, like a cat who had found some cream.
Lifted immediately regretted speaking. "Prove it how?"
Her gaze swept the room, mischievous and calculating. Finally, she tapped her fingers on the table between them, rhythmically. "Bet. You against me. One of the resort games this afternoon. Loser buys dinner."
He narrowed his eyes. "Define 'dinner.'"
"Full meal. Appetizers, dessert, drinks, you know? The works," she said sweetly. "And don't worry, I have expensive taste."
"That's extortion."
"That's incentive."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "I think you just want me to pay for your cocktails."
Charlotte sipped her mason jar concoction and winked. "Or maybe I just want to see if you can handle losing to me."
Lifted stared at her for a long moment, cataloguing her confidence, her sparkle, and her ability to get under his skin like a splinter he couldn't ignore. He should say no. He knew he should say no.
But the thought of letting her walk away thinking she'd won — even without trying, was intolerable.
"Fine. But when I win, I'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu." He said flatly.
Charlotte clapped her hands once, delighted. "That's the spirit! See? You can play along."
The game turned out to be beach volleyball.
Of course, it was.
The sand burned underfoot, the sun was merciless, and Lifted had approximately zero interest in throwing himself around like an amateur Olympian. Charlotte, however, was in her element. She tied her curls into a messy bun, and stripped off her tank top to reveal a sports bra, and practically glowed with adrenaline.
He hated how good she looked.
No, not good. Distracting. Inefficient.
"Don't look so grim," she teased, tossing him a team jersey. "It's not a tax audit."
"I'd prefer a tax audit," he muttered, pulling it over his head.
The match started, and chaos ensued. Charlotte dove for balls with reckless abandon, sand sticking to her legs, hair flying loose. Lifted stayed rooted near the back, calculating angles, playing precise rather than passionate. It annoyed her — which secretly pleased him.
"Come on, use those long arms for something good, other than typing code!" she shouted after he let a ball sail past.
"I don't waste my energy on low-probability outcomes," he shot back.
She groaned. "You're impossible."
But then, in a twist of fate, they found a rhythm. She charged, he covered. She risked, he calculated. By the end of the game, they were accidentally… unstoppable.
The crowd cheered as Charlotte spiked the winning point. She jumped into his arms without thinking. The collision knocked him back a step, her body pressed tight against his, slick with sweat and short of breath.
For a heartbeat, they both froze. Her thighs brushed his hips, her laugh puffed warm against his neck, and something electric sparked between them, dangerous and undeniable.
Charlotte slid down quickly, brushing sand off her stomach like nothing had happened. "Teamwork," she said lightly, though her flushed cheeks betrayed her.
Lifted swallowed hard. "Pure probability."
"Sure," she teased, eyes sparkling. "Probability that you like having me in your arms."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Later, as they walked off the beach, Charlotte bumped her shoulder against his. "So, dinner. Six o'clock. You're paying."
"We agreed loser buys."
"And you lost," she said, grinning.
"We were on the same team."
"Yes, but I scored the winning point."
"That's not how it works."
"Of course, it is," she shot back lightly, brushing sand from her skin. The movement of her hands pulled his attention down the curve of her waist, and as he was trying to snap out of it, the shimmer of sweat along her collarbone had him staring. He tried to look away before she noticed, but it was too late.
"Oh my God," she gasped. "Were you just checking me out?"
His ears burned. "I was not."
"You were." She leaned closer; lips curved in triumph. "Lifted, the human spreadsheet, actually looked at me like a woman. I feel honored."
He clenched his jaw. "You're insufferable."
"And you're blushing," she whispered.
He walked faster. She followed.
Dinner was worse.
Charlotte had dressed up — not extravagantly, but enough to make his stomach knot. A simple sundress, pale blue, clinging in the right places and flowing in the wrong ones. She looked… soft. And dangerous.
When the waiter handed them menus, Charlotte flipped hers open with a wicked grin. "Hmm. The seafood platter looks good. Oh, and the lobster. And champagne. What do you think, date?"
"This isn't a date," he said quickly.
"It's dinner," she corrected. "And you're paying."
The meal was torture — delicious food he barely tasted, wine he pretended not to enjoy, and Charlotte's laughter filling every inch of space between them. She teased him about everything — his posture, his choice of plain grilled fish, the way he held his fork. He retaliated with some dry comments, but she only seemed to enjoy it more.
At one point, she leaned forward, elbows resting on the table and chin nestled in her palm, the movement revealing just enough cleavage to catch his eyes—and hold them. "You know, you're not half bad when you loosen up."
"I haven't loosened up," he said, as he quickly recovered himself.
"Exactly," she whispered, lips curving. "Imagine if you did." By the way, were you checking me out again?
Her gaze lingered a second too long. Heat curled low in his stomach, and he had to glance away, pretending to study the waiter's tie just to keep from combusting. "Check you out? No."
"Hmm, okay." She smiled.
By the time they stepped out, the sky was pretty much black, just a few stars hanging up there. The boardwalk lights were still on, buzzing, and the breeze off the water felt warm against their skin.
Charlotte walked beside him, quiet, which wasn't like her. Her sandals dangled from her hand. After a while, she gave this small laugh and said,
"You know… for someone who swears he hates fun, you didn't do so bad today."
"Hmm," Lifted said.
"Maybe we're not enemies after all," she added, throwing him a quick side glance.
He stopped a second, then looked at her. "Maybe."
The word felt heavier than he wanted it to. Her lips parted like she might say more, but instead she just smiled, soft and easy, and walked ahead, humming under her breath.
Lifted let out a breath, watching her move down the boardwalk, and thought—yeah, enemies were easier.
Because whatever this was?
That's dangerous.