Jenny Han meets The Bachelorette in this effervescent romantic comedy about a teen Korean American adoptee who unwittingly finds herself at the center of a competition for her heart, as orchestrated by her overbearing, loving family. Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Meredith Ireland’s The Jasmine Project, which releases on September 7th 2021!
SYNOPSIS
Jasmine Yap’s life is great. Well, it’s okay. She’s about to move in with her long-time boyfriend, Paul, before starting a nursing program at community college—all of which she mostly wants. But her stable world is turned upside down when she catches Paul cheating. To her giant, overprotective family, Paul’s loss is their golden ticket to showing Jasmine that she deserves much more. The only problem is, Jasmine refuses to meet anyone new.
But…what if the family set up a situation where she wouldn’t have to know? A secret Jasmine Project.
The plan is simple: use Jasmine’s graduation party as an opportunity for her to meet the most eligible teen bachelors in Orlando. There’s no pressure for Jasmine to choose anyone, of course, but the family hopes their meticulously curated choices will show Jasmine how she should be treated. And maybe one will win her heart.
But with the family fighting for their favorites, bachelors going rogue, and Paul wanting her back, the Jasmine Project may not end in love but total, heartbreaking disaster.
My parents and siblings know I like to cook, but they think of it as a hobby. Only Aunt Jay ever knew I was serious about it. And she’s the reason I haven’t wanted to become a chef since I was fourteen. Because whether it was mean or not, she was right: I’m not good enough.
But here, alone in the grocery store, it’s different. Here I can dream. I grab bacon like I’m on Top Chef, then spin my cart for the cheese section. I’m so overly focused on getting to their blue cheese that I don’t see another cart peeking out of an aisle.
It’s too late to stop.
My cart crashes into the other one. With the clang of metal, I’m jostled forward and right back to reality. I make a lovely “oof” sound when my chest hits the cart handle.
“Oh my God, I’m so—” I begin.
“I’m sorry, I—” he says.
Then we stare at each other. Because when I look down the aisle, the cart I crashed into belongs to Eugene Matthews. Because of course it does.
He’s in a white T-shirt and jeans, and unlike me and my plain outfits for work, he makes it look good. Tattooed Sanskrit scrolls on his biceps, his light brown skin perfect even under the crappy store lighting.
I immediately regret everything about the way I look and kind of hope he doesn’t recognize me. But we just met last night, and we’re staring too long for this to be casual.
“Jasmine?” he says.
Great.
“Um, yeah.”
Did I mention I’m also wearing Tangled flip-flops I bought at Disney and my hair is in a messy bun? Because all these things are sadly true. If I could evaporate into a nearby drain, that’d be great.
“I’m sorry I hit you. I was just . . . in my head,” he says. His eyes take on a far-off look before refocusing. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No, no. It’s my fault,” I say. “I really wanted cheese.” Kill me. I grit my teeth so hard, the tension radiates in my skull and down my neck. Who even says that? And why?
He laughs, his expression amused. “Well, cheese is really important. What kind?”
“Blue. Maybe Roquefort, depending on what they have,” I say.
“Blue cheese and mussels?” he says, peering into my cart. I nod.
“Interesting,” he says.
He gestures for me to go, then rolls up beside me. I inhale, and he smells just as good as he did last night. I can’t put my finger on the exact scent. It’s a combination of soap, deodorant, cologne, and just boy, I guess. But it fills me with warmth, and I can’t inhale deeply enough.
I’m moving closer without thinking about it and accidentally knock my cart into his again. I jerk it away. He has the grace to pretend like that didn’t happen.
“Bacon too, huh?” Eugene says. “Bold.”
“I’m going to do it in a white wine base,” I say.
“You may want to sauté in some cherry tomatoes for brightness. Depending on what you’re going for.”
“I was thinking parsley,” I say.
He nods, and just like that, we’re grocery shopping together.
“Are you making frites, too?” he asks.
“Well . . . now I am,” I say, and that part-time dimple of his appears. “I got an air fryer for graduation and I’m dying to try it. But I didn’t know I was making mussels until I got here.”
“You shop proteins first, huh?” He smiles. “Interesting. So, you love to cook?”
I startle and turn toward him. “What makes you say that?” I say.
He looks away, then shrugs. “Just a hunch.”
An awkward silence blankets us, and I’m not sure what I did. I just want to return to our fun banter.
“Well, good hunch,” I say. “I do love to cook.”
I don’t know why it’s so easy to admit it to him. I nor- mally downplay the fact that I love it by saying something like “a girl’s gotta eat.” But he is a chef, so he’ll understand, and there’s something about him that makes me unable to hide. He smiles as we arrive at the cheese section. His gaze roams over the array, and he plucks out a French bleu with a lighter rind.
“You want one that won’t overpower the dish,” he says.
“Traditional Roquefort will be too strong for what you’re going for. I think this or even Gorgonzola will be better. At least, it would be my pick.”
He hands the cheese to me like he wants me to inspect and approve it. I was sold the second he touched it, but I look over the marbling and light-blue rind and place it in my cart.
“Do you love to cook?” I ask. I already know the answer. I’ve seen a picture of him on the line with his dad. I just hadn’t realized it was Eugene at the time.
One side of his lips quirks up and that dimple deepens. “That’s a complicated question.”
“Is it?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It can be when you’re the son of a famous chef and everyone wants you to follow in his footsteps. And you’re not sure if you want to.”
I pause and blink at his words and tone. I . . . wasn’t expecting that.
“That was way more of an answer than you were look- ing for.” He smiles at the ground and rubs the back of his neck. His teal eyes peer up at me, a little shy. “Sorry to lay it out there like that. It was one of the things I was thinking about when I ran into you. Um, yeah, I do love to cook.
That’s how I should’ve responded on the first take.”
I vigorously shake my head. “No. No . . . I . . . it was hon- est,” I say. “I get it. It’s complicated because it holds more weight for you.”
And I do understand, because although I love to cook, anytime I think about actually becoming a chef, I remember the little office Jay used to have at Ventura’s Bistro. I remem- ber the red past-due bills on her desk. I recall the fallout on my parents, on Mom’s relationship with Jay, and I remember that I can’t be a chef. And even though Eugene has what it takes, following in his dad’s footsteps can’t be easy.
Eugene’s eyes meet mine, and his shoulders drop away from his ears. And for some reason, seeing him relax makes me feel like my chest is on fire.
“That’s exactly it,” he says.
Now I’m fully blushing.
