The Bear's Palm

I stood at the edge of the pool, clutching my towel like a lifeline. Everyone else was already splashing around, laughing, looking totally comfortable in their skin. Me? I'd been obsessing over my hair for three hours—should I wear it up? Down? Side braid? In the end, I'd just thrown it in a messy bun and prayed no one would notice the frizz.

Then there was the sweating situation. My palms were literally dripping. Gross.

"Hey, you coming in?"

I jumped. Leo Torres, aka "the Bear" (seriously, that was his actual wrestling nickname), was floating near the edge, water droplets glistening on his shoulders. He was gorgeous, popular, and completely out of my league.

"Maybe later," I managed, my voice cracking slightly.

He swam over and rested his arms on the pool deck. "You know, my abuela taught me palm reading. It's kind of our family thing."

"Wait, what?"

"Palm reading. She swore by it." He climbed out of the pool—ignore the abs, Maya, focus—and sat next to me. "Let me see your hand."

My heart hammered as I extended my palm. His fingers traced the lines, sending shivers everywhere.

"Hmm," he said, squinting dramatically. "This lifeline here? It says you're overthinking things way too much. And this heart line... someone's going to make a move today."

I laughed despite myself. "You're terrible at this."

"Maybe." He leaned closer. "Or maybe I just really wanted to hold your hand."

My brain short-circuited. Was this happening?

"Also," he added, pulling at his wet hair, "I was gonna ask if you wanted to get food later, but now I'm nervous because my hair looks ridiculous when it's wet and I can't believe I just said that out loud—"

"Leo."

"Yeah?"

"I'd love to."

He grinned, and something in my chest shifted. Maybe pool parties weren't so bad after all. Maybe the Bear wasn't so scary. And maybe—just maybe—this summer wouldn't suck quite as much as I'd expected.