this is a work of art.
JASMINE
SOMEONE FORGOT TO SHUT THE gates of hell, because this early-morning July sun in upstate New York is working overtime. It presses straight down on my scalp, while heat creeps up from the asphalt, seeping through the soles of my shoes. The Boilermaker 15K is yet to start, and I’m already drenched—sweat sliding down my arms, collecting at my spine, turning my sports bra top into a second skin.
With kids weaving through the crowd and spectators pressed along the barriers, I feel almost naked out here. My sports bra is doing the bare minimum, what with my sweaty skin. A couple of shirtless guys walk past, and I have to actively stop my brain from wishing I were a boy.
If I’m being honest, I’d love to rip this sports bra off and exist the way they do—unbothered, unselfconscious. And if I’m being really honest, it’s not just the sun making my skin prickle like this.
I adjust my face cap and tap my watch again, more out of habit than necessity. The numbers look good, but I need to work on my breathing. Scanning the crowd, I take slower, deeper, controlled breaths. This is the part I love and hate in equal measure: the seconds before the gun, when the streets are packed with cheering strangers, when my body feels coiled and ready, when anything feels possible. There’s the promise of pain, yes, but also the promise of that post-race high that makes me believe I could outrun the version of myself that’s been holding back.
The race should begin in—
“Jas?” A deep, unfamiliar masculine voice cuts through my wandering mind.
Great, I frown. I’m not the only Jasmine running today.
Still, curiosity gets the better of me. I turn toward the voice to see who’s lucky to be my namesake, only my stomach flips before my brain catches up. I blink once, then again, hoping my eyes are lying.
Nope. They’re not.
“Kunle? Kay?” I say, not sure if I’m asking or confirming.
A flash of disbelief crosses his face before it is quickly masked by amusement. His mesmerizing blue eyes lock onto mine, holding me hostage as his familiar crooked grin settles in. The same one I’ve seen at the end of races, in group photos with kids from various outreach programs, in moments when I’ve felt a tug of pride for knowing him.
“I knew it.” His voice still carries that teasing lilt I remember from college, only now it’s deeper, like it matured along with him.
How in the world did we finally end up in the same race?
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Wow. I didn’t know you ran the Boilermaker.”
He shrugs, then slides a hand into the pocket of his black shorts. The watch on his wrist reminds me that some people might never get smartwatches—and that I need to make money in this life and the next.
“I’ve been around,” he says. “Here and there. You know me—I can’t resist a good race.” He quirks his mouth. “And this one promises a good drink at the finish line.”
Smiling, I arch a brow. “So alcohol is the motivation, huh?”
Before he can respond, I feel a light bump against my arm—a not-so-subtle reminder that I’m not standing here alone.
“Oh.” I gesture between them. “Miranda, meet my friend from college. Kunle.”
Kunle turns to her, wearing that easy charm of his. He offers her a confident smile and handshake. “Hi, Miranda. Nice to meet you. Sorry if I interrupted—”
“Nice to meet you too!” Miranda beams, her gaze bouncing between us like she’s watching a tennis match. “I’m the gym friend,” she says proudly. “We drove down from Newark for this, and it’s been amazing.”
“Oh.” Kunle nods, clearly entertained.
Miranda keeps going, offering up information I would’ve preferred to keep tucked away—like the fact that I haven’t left Newark, or that I’m still actively hunting for a job that matches what’s on my vision board.
“Yeah,” Miranda continues, waving a hand. “She suggested it, and I haven’t been—” She pauses, scoffs, then corrects herself, “—I mean, we haven’t been. You’d think being a state away would make the decision easier.”
“Hmm.” Kunle smiles, looking at me. There’s a glint in his eyes that says interesting.
“Come to find out that people fly in from Kenya for this!” Miranda gasps. “I’m so glad Jas was like, ‘Mira,’”—she imitates my voice terribly—”‘we have to go.’” She grins. “I never really go out of state because what’s the point, but this? This is amazing.”
She finally turns back to Kunle. “What about you? Drove in or flew?”
“Flew in from California.”
My brows shoot up.
“Ooh … The Golden State,” Miranda chimes in, delighted. “That’s so cool—that this event brings people from everywhere.”
“It really does,” Kunle says, his smile widening. Laugh lines crease the corners of his eyes, softening his face. Then his attention shifts fully back to me. “It’s really good to see you here.”
He pauses. “What about you, Jas? Are you doing that multi-city race thing you said you wanted to try?”
His question leads to a long, loaded silence, where I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way his dark eyes sweep over me, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the flex of his arms as he shifts his weight. My heart stutters. Sweat prickles along my spine. I’m acutely conscious of every stray curl under my cap, every inch of damp fabric clinging to me.
Feeling oddly shy, I look away. How does he even remember that throwaway comment?
“No shit,” he says softly. “You are.”
I look back at him, and he is smiling in … admiration?
College—Jasmine’s Junior Year
Another group project? Lord have mercy!
When I graduate, it will be only my name on my certificate, and no one will realize other people contributed to whether I passed or failed a project. Why can’t projects be non-scorable? Like in case you get paired with the wrong person.
These are the thoughts passing through my head when the professor makes the announcement in a class of seniors and juniors. And they get worse when he starts reading out names.
“Group F will be Jasmine Darko and …”
God please, let it be someone in my class. Let it be someone I flow with. Let it be—
“Olakunle Doyle.”
Oh.
I glance up automatically, scrunching my brows at the raised hand of my supposed project partner. There must be a mistake. Is this a prank? I think to myself as my brain registers an annoyingly composed, dark-haired guy.
Great, I didn’t catch his name. Maybe it was Ol’Mckinley Doyle the professor said, and I misheard it.
Ol’Mckinley and I make awkward eye contact across the lecture hall. He gives me a small, polite nod and a quick smile, which I return with the bare minimum enthusiasm before going back to my notebook. I have a strong feeling that I’ll end up doing most of the “group” work.
After class, he approaches me with a notebook tucked under his arm. He looks like the kind of guy who never panics before deadlines. Or anything, really. Why do I have to be stuck with a stranger?
“Jasmine, right?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Ol’Mckinley?” I scrunch my lips and my eyes. “I’m sorry—I didn’t get the name when—”
“It’s Olakunle,” he says, smiling. “But you can call me Kunle.”
Was that an accent?!
“Looks like we’re stuck together,” he continues.
“Lucky us,” I reply dryly, faking a smile while my brain permutates and combines the visible and audible evidence. I’m a first-generation immigrant, but the community my parents created for me and my siblings exposed us to other immigrants. And from my deduction of how he said his Yoruba first name—and how he doesn’t look Nigerian—I’m feeling very lost.
Oh God, I sound very snobbish and assuming.
“Do you mind us splitting the project right now?” he asks.
“Like now?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Umm … sure. Give me a moment.”
“No problem. I’ll be outside.”
After catching up with friends and bidding my course mates goodbye, I find him at one of the long tables outside the lecture hall. He’s got the syllabus spread out in front of him, lightly tapping his pen against the page.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my bag before sitting next to him.
“Hey,” he offers, glancing up. “First things first—how do you want to split this?”
Man is straightforward. Efficient. And … okay. Not so terrible. This might not be a bad pairing after all.
As we talk timelines and research angles, he pronounces my last name perfectly, the way my parents pronounce it whenever they’re introducing themselves or talking to customer service representatives.
“And Jasmine Darko hits submit.”
Darko.
Dar—as in dark—then koh as in go.
I look at him sharply. “You didn’t butcher that.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Should I have?”
I narrow my eyes. “Most people do.”
“Well,” he says, “that’s a shame. I like the name. It’s a Ghanaian name, right?”
There’s something in his tone that makes me pause. Curious now, I press my lips into a smile, liking his flow.
“My parents are Ghanaian. You’re Nigerian?” I ask.
He blinks like what I said was confusing, before smiling wide. “Born and bred.”
You must be kidding me!
I laugh out loud and immediately regret it, curbing my excitement by pressing my lips together and forcing a serious face. But his expression remains amused instead of offended.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I just—wait. What? You’re Nigerian?”
“Lagos,” he says. “I grew up in Ikoyi.”
“I knew I heard something in your accent.”
He tilts his head. “What about it?”
“It’s—” I gesture vaguely. “Not what I expected when you corrected me about your name.”
“Ah.” He leans back, folding his arms. “There it is.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “No, I didn’t mean—”
“You meant you assumed I’d sound a certain way,” he finishes, still smiling. “It’s okay. Happens all the time.”
I study him more closely now. The confidence. The ease. The way he doesn’t rush to explain himself.
“I’m first-generation,” I say instead. “My parents moved here before I was born. We’re … very Ghanaian at home.”
He nods slowly. “That tracks.”
“Excuse you?”
He chuckles. “You’ve got the cadence. You switch when you’re emotional.”
I freeze. “I do not.”
“You do,” he says gently. “Especially when you’re confused—or would I say … annoyed?”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. Because—damn it—he’s right.
“So,” I say, changing tactics, “how did you end up here? And who gave you these genes?”
“Diplomatic life,” he replies. “My father’s Irish. He was working in Nigeria when he met my mother. She’s a Yoruba princess.”
I roll my eyes; he catches it, and we both laugh.
“Does that work every time?” I ask.
“Yes,” he chuckles, holding his belly. “But really, she is a princess. My full name is Olakunle Adefolawe-Doyle.”
“Okay … Nigerian prince.”
We laugh.
“I promise you, I’m not that Nigerian prince.”
We chuckle again, earning the curious stares of other students.
“Anyways,” he continues when our humor settles, “we moved around a lot—Nigeria, London, Brussels. And I adapted too.”
“Hence the play with accents?”
He shrugs.
“I have another question for you. I know this sounds like an interview right now, and I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. I’ll only answer if I want to.” His mesmerizing blue eyes strips me of all nervous energy floating around me.
“Cool, cool,” I say, licking my lips. “My question is … growing up and moving around a lot, did you feel like you belonged anywhere?”
He studies me as he thinks through my question, and I offer the friendliest smile I can cook up, curiosity licking at my brain.
“Yes,” he says finally. “Eventually. You learn that culture isn’t where you’re born—it’s what you choose to carry with you.”
Deep …
“Okay,” I smile slowly. “I like you a little more now.” I pinch the air with my thumb and middle finger.
“That’s a good thing—but wait, did you like me before this like?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a way of getting under one’s skin?”
“I do?” he asks, offering me a lopsided grin.
I’m not answering that. It will only make his head swell and explode.
I gather my notes and place them in my bag. “Don’t play with me. You’re easy to talk to. And don’t read much into it.”
He gathers his notes too and stands. “I won’t. But I will say this—”
“Yes?” I raise a brow waiting for him to use a stupid line.
“I’m glad I got paired with you.”
I don’t know why that makes my chest warm, but it does.
15+ chapters to go…
Releases July 14, 2026.