Challenged by You: A Fusion Universe Novel Read online

  Challenged By You

  A Fusion Universe Novel

  Tracey Jerald

  Mom,

  For taking me into New York as a little girl and for helping me bake my first batch of cookies, I never fell out of love with either one.

  You’re the best mom there is then, now, always.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  The Fusion Universe

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tracey Jerald

  About the Author

  Challenged by You

  A Fusion Universe Novel

  Copyright © 2020 by Tracey Jerald

  2020 Lady Boss Press

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN: 978-1-64818-046-0

  ISBN: 978-1-64818-047-7 (Paperback)

  Editor: One Love Editing (http://oneloveediting.com)

  Proof Edits: Holly Malgieri (https://www.facebook.com/HollysRedHotReviews/)

  Cover Design: Kari March Designs

  Published by Lady Boss Press, Inc.

  Chapter 1

  Trina

  I want to make this call about as much as I want to slice my finger open with one of my chef’s knives, but I don’t have a choice. Picking up my cell, I dial my mother.

  “What is it, Trina? I don’t have a lot of time.” I grit my teeth at how she greets me. God, if it weren’t for the absolute belief she treasures my kids and won’t let any harm come to them, I never would have applied for a job here in New York. I’d have gone somewhere, anywhere, just to avoid the judgmental attacks I get each time I have to deal with her.

  “Mom, work just called. An emergency meeting. I won’t be more than two hours—” I begin, but I’m cut off by her shrieking in my ear.

  “It’s my canasta day! You know this.”

  “I do,” I acknowledge. Probably because she’s mentioned it every week since I was forced to move back to the city, but I hold that in.

  “I only get to do so much for me, Trina. I’m not just a babysitter at your beck and call; you need to find someone else for emergencies,” she lectures for the umpteenth time.

  “I’m trying, Mom,” I grit out.

  “It can’t be that hard,” she bemoans. “After all, they’re just babies.”

  “Toddlers, Mom. But here’s the thing, I don’t want just anyone watching them. Do you?” I fling back.

  “Well, no.” I feel her weakening.

  “Mom, two hours. I’ll pay you double. This way you can take a cab to canasta,” I bribe, knowing that half the time she’s going to be watching my littles would have been spent walking the eighteen blocks to the community center. I squeeze my eyes closed. The reality is, my mother’s not young. It’s not her responsibility to be watching my children day after day while I’m at work, but with the budget I’ve put myself on to give my children everything they could ever need, I just can’t figure out how to afford something else. Not when I don’t know many people in the city, and I’m not willing to leave my babies with just anyone.

  Running my finger over the chipped linoleum, I dream about the day I can rent a better apartment closer to work. But I know each mile I move closer to the city means more money. Money I need to sock away toward Chris and Annie’s futures.

  “Fine,” Mom snaps, jostling me out of my reverie. “Bring the kids down. But you’d better not be late, Trina,” she warns before she slams down the phone in my ear.

  “God, I wish she’d ditch that landline.” I press End. With a sigh, I go to the bedroom to wake my babies like it’s any other workday. To them, it’s a normal day to go to Grandma’s. Thankfully, they don’t realize I was supposed to be off today.

  They’ll just be ecstatic I’m home early.

  They won’t be the only ones.

  An hour later, I’m sprinting through the back doors of Seduction out of breath. “Made it,” I gasp, skidding to a halt. Before I think of approaching the executive chef’s office, I duck into the minuscule employee locker room, stash my purse, wash up, and slide into my white slim-fitting jacket. Tucking my hair beneath a net and grabbing the toque blanche denoting my status in the kitchen full of trained professionals, I take a deep breath.

  I’m startled when I don’t see anyone else moving in that direction. Instead, at the appetizer preparation station they’re busy dicing up celery, mincing garlic, and coring apples. Quick waves and “Heys” are exchanged before I move on. I scoot around the next station to avoid the careful deseeding of chilies as well as the salt preparation that will be used for the salmon later. “Oops, sorry, guys!” I apologize as I bump into one of the burly guys parboiling long-grain rice in vats.

  “No problem, T. Thought today was your day off? Did you get called in?”

  Confused, I hurry forward. Something’s not right.

  As I pass by my station—desserts—I get a quick wave from my best friend, Elle, before she begins the preparation of pomegranate and red wine sorbet which needs to chill for hours—added recently to the menu after it was tried out at Seduction’s mothership in Portland with a great deal of success.

  “Did I get the date wrong?” I mutter to her.

  “For what?” Elle whispers back. Chef Billy Spencer doesn’t like a lot of talking in his kitchen, so we’ve perfected our almost imperceptible undertone.

  “For the meeting I was called in for?”

  “No clue what meeting you’re talking about. None of us here”—she nods to the room at large—“were told about a meeting.”

  A ball of anxiousness begins to form in my stomach. Leaning closer, as if we could possibly be overheard, Elle says softer than usual, “But if you’re about to meet with Chef, he’s in one nasty as hell…”

  “Has anyone seen Paxton arrive yet?” The bellow comes from the direction of the office.

  Elle’s eyes grow enormous. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. You know I just got off shift at—” But I don’t get to finish my sentence as the slamming of a door precludes that.

  And then, without any warning, Spencer appears before me and Elle. We both snap to attention. E
lle crushes the pomegranate seeds in her hands much like I’m crushing the bones in mine. Not even bothering to acknowledge her, his thick finger points in my direction. “You. Office. Now.” He turns before I can formulate a reply. The volume in the kitchen lowers significantly as my colleagues cease working at his order.

  My cheeks flame. I stammer to his back, “I… Chef…”

  “Don’t speak. Just move,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Momentarily frozen, it gives Elle time enough to whisper again, “What did you do, T?” before I manage to stumble forward.

  Because I have no idea, but whatever Spencer thinks I did, it’s apparently dire.

  Forget dire—this is catastrophic.

  “Chef, I swear, I didn’t serve anything off the menu,” I plead for the ninth time in the last hour.

  He slaps the stack of papers down against his desk, the sound causing me to jerk back, frightened. “According to this you did. And not only did you serve something that’s off the menu that I didn’t approve,” he sneers, “‘but was it supposed to have a touch of sweetness? It’s hard to say as half of it had been simmered in matcha sauce to an unrecognizable mush.’” He crumples the paper he’s reading into a ball before flinging it at my head.

  I duck just as it hits with some force against the glass. “We don’t use matcha here at Seduction, sir. It’s not on the approved—”

  “I know what’s fucking approved to be served!” he bellows. “Now, get your shit and get the fuck out.”

  I blanch. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Jonas Rice, the biggest food critic in New York City, just wrote a two-star review about Seduction due to your dessert last night. Once Portland hears about this…” he threatens.

  I swallow hard, having heard stories from Chef Spencer about the wrath of Chef Mia Palazzo, one of the owners and head chef overseeing the Seduction Restaurant Group. The dark cloud of doom seems endless. What am I going to do? I think desperately. But then my spine straightens. I’ve survived more than this in the last two years. After all, I gave up the dreams I had for my children because their good-for-nothing sperm donor abandoned all of us. We moved here, to a place where love seems to be secondary to debasement.

  And now, anger pulsating through my veins, I’m not about to let an overbearing baboon tell me I did something I damn well know I didn’t. “How do I know it wasn’t you?” I challenge.

  “Excuse me?” he roars, taking a step closer.

  But I hold my ground. “It wasn’t me.” I shrug. I’m already gone; I have nothing to lose. But I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.

  More and more, the idea of putting my children on a bus and moving somewhere, anywhere, sounds appealing. “I’ll tell you one last time: it wasn’t me. If you need to tell Chef Palazzo, so be it. I’ll be blackballed, and I know it.” I shrug again.

  Chef Spencer’s gaping at me as if he’s never seen me before. His mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.

  My own finger lifts in his direction. “But it would behoove you to interview everyone involved in serving Rice-A-Roni last night.”

  Chef takes a step back. “You dare to call Jonas Rice by that plebeian dish?” By the tone of his voice, he obviously lives and dies by every word this elitist snob writes. “It’s a good thing you won’t be here much longer if you don’t have appreciation for the people who can make or break you in this business.”

  Bending over, I scoop up the crumbled ball at my feet. “You expect me to respect a man who dared to accuse me of serving crap that I never plated? As for you? I trained under some of the most amazing dessert instructors in the country. I then apprenticed with someone you used to work with before she booted you to the door. Let me see, what was the reason again? Burning a cake and then trying to scrape off the outer layer to serve at a wedding ceremony? And you expect me to stand here and kowtow to you as if you’ve never made a mistake when it’s obvious this Jonas Rice has?”

  He blanches. “There’s no need to go into that, Paxton.” Spencer looks around as if someone can overhear our conversation. Bristling, he glares down at me. “That’s not the point of this conversation.”

  “If I’m as good as gone, I’m going to say anything I damn well want to everyone I think should hear it,” I declare.

  “You won’t be able to work as a cafeteria worker if you say another word. You and those precious children you yap on about will be living on the street,” he threatens.

  “See, the difference between us is this: I love to bake, and I like working at Seduction, but there are two things I love more. If I have to work as a sanitation worker picking up the remains of a cake someone else barfed to make certain they are clothed and fed, I don’t care. I’ll do anything for them, but what I won’t do is let them see their mother degraded by another man.” With that, I unbutton my white jacket as I storm out the door. I don’t wait for Chef to say anything else before I storm out.

  I figure they’ll mail my last check.

  Flinging it open, I immediately ram into someone who is waiting right outside. “Excuse me,” I mumble into his chest. I don’t bother to look up since I wouldn’t be able to see him due to the tears in my eyes because the reality is hitting pretty hard.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. How am I going to find a job, feed my kids, pay my rent?

  How am I going to pay my mother?

  Without a word to anyone, least of all Elle, I race through the kitchen as fast as I can. I fetch my purse and slam open the back door hard.

  Then I run for Grand Central Station as quickly as I ran to get here. I need to get to my mother as quickly as possible so I can get my babies and figure out a plan.

  Chapter 2

  Jonas

  “No, definitely do not advise your readers to take a woman to Super Sticky to propose,” I tell my twin brother, Julian. Shuddering in disgust when I think about the matcha disaster from the night before, I poke him a little. “Are you crazy? You do want the woman to say yes, right?”

  “But Jonas, you raved about it in your review this morning.” His voice is laced with confusion.

  “No, I didn’t. I ripped it to shreds. That place was a disaster from the moment I stepped in down to the food.”

  “Dude.” I hear the rustle of papers before my brother begins to read. “‘Super Sticky’s pastry chef has a fine hand but is not overindulgent. I don’t know if I would order the pomegranate and red wine sorbet again, but it served as an excellent palate cleanser before the ridiculously sinful honey-and-cinnamon caramel-popcorn cheesecake I would indulge in time and time again. While the crust wasn’t overwhelmingly innovative, I’m not certain it could have been baked better.’” Julian finishes quoting my words back to me.

  Words that were meant for Seduction, not Super Sticky.

  “Oh, God,” I moan aloud. “There’s been a god-awful mistake.”

  “You? Make a mistake? What, was the cheesecake only moderately—” Julian starts to tease.

  “The restaurant names were switched!” I snap, scrubbing a hand over my face.

  “Shit, brother.” The horrified sound of Julian’s voice causes my stomach to churn, much like the matcha-suffused dessert at Super Sticky did last night did. “What does this mean?”

  “It means I have to get dressed and haul my ass down to the office,” I tell him grimly.

  “Good luck. Call me when you’re done.” He ends the call before I can say another word.

  “Fuck!” I yell aloud. Racing over to my laptop, I check the column I sent in late last night. Was it me? Did I make such a catastrophic error?

  Scanning through my email I sent in, I almost collapse in relief. “It wasn’t me.” The column went to the paper just as I intended it to go over. An almost perfect rating for Seduction—minus the ridiculous wait I had to endure—and I completely trashed Super Sticky.

  Now, it’s time to find out who screwed up and how fast they can print a retraction.

  “Chef Palazzo,
again, I deeply apologize for our little mistake. We will be updating the website immediately with a note of apology included.” My uncle Karlson, editor-in-chief of City Lights, is wiping the sweat off of his forehead with a handkerchief.

  There’s silence on the other end of the line.

  “Chef Palazzo?” Karlson asks almost desperately. Perhaps he’s hoping she fell asleep due to the early hour on the West Coast, I think, bemused.

  “Do you realize what your ‘little mistake’ could have cost us, Karlson?” Mia Palazzo’s voice is like shards of ice.

  Karlson stammers. “Yes, which is why we’ll be immediately…”

  “Issue the retraction,” the renowned chef demands. “Jonas, are you still there?”

  “I am, Chef,” I reply smoothly. My uncle glares at me as if accusing me of being teacher’s pet.

  “I appreciate the complimentary words you intended on writing on behalf of Seduction New York. If you would be so kind as to hand deliver a copy of the updated review to my executive chef once your website has been updated. It would go a long way to addressing this…” Her voice drops into a sneer. “Little issue.”

  “Consider it done, Chef,” I agree. While this is something I normally would delegate to a member of the City Lights staff, this was our mistake, and it aids all of us for me to do this simple deed to earn back the favor of Mia Palazzo and the other owners of the Seduction Restaurant Group.