Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Crescent, Tara

  Sausage King

  An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

  Tara Crescent

  Contents

  Free Story Offer

  Sausage King

  1. Dakota

  2. Julian

  3. Dakota

  4. Julian

  5. Dakota

  6. Julian

  7. Dakota

  8. Dakota

  9. Julian

  10. Dakota

  11. Julian

  12. Dakota

  13. Dakota

  14. Julian

  15. Dakota

  16. Julian

  17. Dakota

  18. Julian

  19. Dakota

  20. Julian

  21. Dakota

  22. Julian

  23. Dakota

  24. Julian

  25. Dakota

  26. Julian

  27. Dakota

  28. Dakota

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  A Preview of Hard Wood by Tara Crescent

  About Tara Crescent

  Also by Tara Crescent

  Free Story Offer

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  Boyfriend by the Hour

  This steamy, romantic story contains a dominant hero who’s pretending to be an escort, and a sassy heroine who’s given up on real relationships.

  Sadie:

  I can’t believe I have the hots for an escort.

  Cole Mitchell is ripped, bearded, sexy and dominant. When he moves next door to me, I find it impossible to resist sampling the wares.

  But Cole’s not a one-woman kind of guy, and I won’t share.

  Cole:

  She thinks I’m an escort. I’m not.

  I thought I’d do anything to sleep with Sadie. Then I realized I want more. I want Sadie. Forever.

  I’m not the escort she thinks I am.

  Now, I just have to make sure she never finds out.

  Text copyright © 2019 Tara Crescent

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kasmit Covers. http://www.kasmitcovers.com.

  Sausage King

  Seriously, who calls themselves the Sausage King?

  Julian King is a jerk. I had one smokin’ hot night with him. I don’t care how good his hot dog feels in my bun - I’m done. If I had it my way, I’d never see him again.

  Unfortunately, that’s not an option. See, the town of Madison has come up with a ridiculous idea to decide on who’s going to win a restaurant permit. A reality-style cooking contest.

  And I’m competing against the Sausage King.

  Julian King, with his ripped abs and his chocolate brown eyes and his sexy, dimpled smile.

  Julian, who drives me nuts, but who always manages to make me laugh.

  Julian, who makes me shiver every time I brush against him. Accidentally, of course.

  I can’t let that matter. I have to win. No matter how sexy his man-meat is, the barbecue’s over. No more bratwurst. The Sausage King can put his salami away.

  1

  Dakota

  The first person I see Monday morning is Julian King.

  Ugh.

  It’s the last week of April. It’s cold. Spring has decided to take an extended nap, and winter has us firmly in its icy fangs. The sky is overcast, and the air has that kind of dampness that clamps around you and goes through you, chilling every bone in your body. I want to go back home, wrap myself from head to toe in warmth, and swim in a vat of hot chocolate.

  Unaffected by the grey skies and the bitter chill, Julian King, Madison’s newest full-time resident, jogs along the beach.

  Gah.

  His long legs effortlessly chew up the distance. His full-sleeved t-shirt hugs his broad chest. Wide shoulders, flat stomach. Six pack abs, if my memory serves me correctly, and unfortunately, where Julian King is concerned, my memory is happy to throw forward image after image of his perfect, naked body.

  Did I say ugh already? Ugh.

  Sherri Stephenson comes out of Fannie’s, bundled up in a puffy red coat. She stares at Julian and then turns ruefully to me. “If I were twenty years younger…” she says. “Hell, even ten years younger. You know what I mean?”

  She gives me an expectant look, and I realize she’s waiting for me to respond.

  Say something blandly pleasant about Julian, Dakota.

  Nothing comes to mind. I draw a complete blank. My brain contemplates the idea of paying Julian King a compliment and mounts a rebellion. Hell, no.

  “If you like the type,” I mutter grudgingly.

  Sherri raises an eyebrow. “What type? Handsome, polite, and successful?”

  I snort. “Oh, please. It’s a cunning mask. Julian King would sell his grandmother to the wolves if it gained him a sliver of an advantage.”

  Like he did with me. This time last year, Julian King deliberately let me assume he lived in Toronto. He deliberately led me to believe that he was a safe target for a one-night stand. He was hot, funny, and charming, and he smooth-talked his way into my bed.

  Then I found out the jerk quit his big-city lawyer job, moved to Madison, and founded his gourmet sausage company.

  He’s called his business Sausage King. The normally conservative residents of Madison should have been up in arms at the name, but no. They think it’s funny.

  Funny.

  Gah.

  Would I have slept with Julian if I’d known he was about to move to Madison? Hell no. Everybody here is a gossip, and I prefer not to give anyone any ammunition. Been there, done that, no desire for a repeat. The town’s still talking about the way my father abandoned my mother, and that had happened twenty years ago. I’ll never forget the sly whispers, the looks of pity, the casseroles our neighbors brought as a pretext to visit so they could interrogate her about what happened.

  To this day, the smell of tuna casserole turns my stomach.

  My brother Dominic had left Madison for a few years. Me? I hadn’t wanted to leave. The moment I finished college, I came right back. Gossip aside, I love it here. I love the beach. I love walking along the water and sinking my toes into hot sand. During shoulder season, I can wake up at the crack of dawn and take my canoe out, and there’s not a single person around for miles. Despite its flaws, Madison will always be home to me.

  Sherri looks shocked at my remark. Too late, I realize what I said. Idiot, Dakota. Nothing will fire up the gossip mills like the rumor of a feud between Julian and me. “Don’t mind me, Sherri. I’m always cranky before coffee. I have to agree; Julian is pretty easy on the eyes.”

  There. I said that out loud without gagging. I should get a prize.

  Thankfully, Sherri buys my explanation. “I think I’ll put together a fundraising calendar for Madison next year. I’ll get all the young men in the area to pose shirtless for it. Julian, Dominic, Zach Janssen over in Bainbridge…” Her voice trails off as she contemplates the sad lack of eligible men in Madison, but nothing can keep Sherri down for long. She perks up again and winks at me. “For charity, of course.”

  “Of course.” My voice is dry. I’m trying to thin
k of how to extract myself from this excruciating conversation when the worst thing in the world happens.

  Julian King sees us staring at him.

  The asshole’s smirk widens. That stupidly sexy dimple on his chin deepens, and he lifts his arm in a smug wave.

  Cocky jackass.

  If Monday morning is any indication, this is going to be a stellar week.

  I’m standing in line at the coffee shop, waiting for the tourist family in front of me to decide what they want, when I feel a familiar presence at my back. “Well, well, well.”

  It’s Julian King. Speak of the devil, and he appears.

  His smug drawl sets my teeth on edge. I whirl around and tilt my head up to glare at him.

  It has no effect. His grin widens. “Checking me out, are you, Wilde?” His grin widens. “I get it; you can’t take your eyes off me. Like what you see?”

  He’s standing too close, waiting for me to draw away. The jerk is baiting me, and I’d be damned if I’m going to give him the satisfaction. For a second, I’m tempted to tell Julian what I really think of him, but there are kids around, and parents get pretty touchy when I swear around their precious bundles of joy. “I was hoping you’d hit a patch of ice and fall flat on your face,” I tell him, my voice perfectly polite. “Pity it didn’t happen. Still, I live in hope.”

  His teeth flash. “Sure you do, Wilde.” His eyes trail down my body, his inspection slow and thorough. He’d looked at me like this a year ago. Later, in bed, his hands and mouth had delivered on every promise his eyes had made, and then some.

  Should have never slept with him, Dakota.

  “Had a hard time fitting that massive ego of yours through the door?” The instant I bite out those words, I suppress my groan. Idiot. You gave him one hell of an opening.

  Of course, Julian King takes advantage. His eyes dance with amusement, and his voice lowers to a seductive simmer. “It’s not my massive ego you’re thinking about, are you?” He takes a half-step closer, heat just pouring off his body, and it takes all the willpower I have to stand my ground. “Anytime you want the king again, sweetness, you just have to ask.”

  The king? The guy’s given his cock a name? Egotistical bastard. I picture wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing. It’s a good image. “Why would I?” I ask coolly. “It wasn’t that memorable.”

  “Not memorable? You moaned out my name, Dakota. You shuddered through orgasm after orgasm on my tongue. You woke me up in the middle of the night with your mouth on my dick, and then you climbed on top of me and rode me until you came again.” He takes in my too-flushed cheeks and male satisfaction flares in his eyes. “You don’t remember any of that? Because I do.”

  At least he kept his voice down. “Fuck you, King,” I clench out between ground teeth.

  “Like I said, anytime you want, sweetness. You know where I live.”

  I give him my most quelling expression. “Hell will freeze over first.”

  If I’m hoping my words put a dent in that puffed-up ego, they’re promptly dashed to the ground. Julian just chuckles, as unflappable as ever. “You’re up,” he says helpfully. “Hurry up, won’t you? Some of us have places to be and things to do.”

  I look up. The tourist family is long gone, and Leela Ahuja, the teenager who works the morning shift at the coffee shop on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, is staring at the two of us, her mouth open.

  Damn it. What the hell is wrong with me today? First Sherri, and now Leela. The news will be around town in an hour. In prime tourist season, there might be a whisper of a chance that everyone’s too busy to gossip. In shoulder season, like now? Not a prayer. Leela will tell her mother Mina, who sits on the town council and runs a yoga retreat slash bed-and-breakfast. Mina plays poker every week with Manuel Medina. Manuel is good friends with my entire family. Ten to one, my mother calls me before the end of the day, asking me if I’m dating Julian. She will tell me things about motherhood and ticking biological clocks and how I’m not getting any younger.

  Ninety-five percent of the time, Sandra Flanagan is a progressive feminist who does not believe that a woman needs a man to be happy. But one of her painter friends’ daughter just gave birth, and Margie brought around pictures of the newborn baby, thus sealing my fate. My mother has grandbaby fever.

  “Oh please,” I hiss through clenched teeth. I just bought the property next to me. I’ve put down a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit so I can expand Dakota’s Pizza. I’ve got contractors to hire, ovens to install, and furniture to buy. He thinks he’s busy? Cocky asshole. “We both know that the only thing you have to do with your day is playing with your tiny sausage.” I turn to Leela and paste a smile on my face. “I’ll have a large cappuccino to go.”

  “I’ll have the same thing, Leela,” Julian chimes in, his voice dancing with laughter. “And one of your chocolate chip muffins. Put Dakota’s drink on my bill, please.” I turn back to tell him that’s not necessary, and I see a spark light in his eyes. “Coffee powers her broomstick.”

  Ooh.

  Forget strangling. It’s far too quick. I’m going to make a Julian King doll and stab it with a pin. In the nuts. Over and over again.

  2

  Julian

  Ocean blue eyes that look ready to emit fire. A tongue so sharp it would cut glass. Curves that won’t quit. I thought I liked peaceful, low maintenance women. Then I met Dakota Wilde.

  Drinking my cappuccino, I make my way back to my cottage to play with my tiny sausage, as Dakota so charmingly put it. I spend a few pleasant minutes fantasizing about Dakota taking me up on my offer and sleeping with me again. Then I realize I’m wallowing and banish her from my mind.

  Stubborn, irritating woman.

  Last Victoria Day weekend, I’d attended Vicki and Cat’s brewpub opening with Zach, Penny, and a couple other friends. I’d seen Dakota there.

  There’s no doubt about it—it was lust at first sight. The chemistry was off-the-charts good. We’d both felt it. I’d wanted to rip her clothes off. She wanted to do the same to me.

  And we did. It was memorable. Hot. Passionate.

  It had also been just the one night.

  Not my choice. She’d sneaked off at dawn, and when I sent her a text message the day after, she’d ignored it. I’d sent her another message; she hadn’t responded to that one either.

  Message received. I thought we had one-in-a-lifetime chemistry, the kind that was worth exploring, but clearly, it was all from my end. To Dakota, it was nothing more than a one-night stand.

  Wallowing again, King.

  To stop myself from thinking about Dakota, I focus my thoughts on Sausage King. Last May, I’d quit my job with nothing more than a vague dream of starting a small business. A year later, Sausage King, my artisanal sausage company supplies thirty bars and restaurants all over the peninsula. It’s getting to the point where I’m seriously considering hiring a couple of workers to ease the load. I’ve set targets, and I’m ahead of them.

  I’m ready for the next challenge.

  I walk down Front Street and turn on Harbor. Most of the retail businesses in Madison are located on these two streets. Front runs east-west and parallels the beach, and Harbor runs north-south. I pass the unimaginatively named Madison Motel, the Shipwreck Fish Fry, Clancy’s Canoe Rental, and Beth Shepperd’s ice cream store, The Frozen Spoon.

  The Frozen Spoon shows no signs of life.

  Huh. That’s interesting.

  I stop to take a look. Even at best of times, The Frozen Spoon didn’t do a ton of business, which is shocking, really, when you consider that it’s selling excellent handmade ice-cream in a beach town. But it’s not hard to see why. Unlike its neighbors, the store is set back on the property, and people have to wander down a driveway to reach the entrance. It’s also in terrible shape. The roof needs to be replaced. The paint is peeling. The stair rails look like they’d yield if I put any weight on them.

  If I ran the place, I’d fix it up. Then I’d add a deck
out front, so tourists would have a place to sit down. I’d expand the offerings, serving not just ice-cream, but also food. Nothing fancy, nothing that requires a commercial kitchen. Grilled cheese sandwiches, salads, sausages, that kind of thing…

  Sausages.

  The back of my neck prickles.

  Beth Shepperd is sixty-six. Her husband Jim died unexpectedly last year. According to the gossips, she doesn’t have enough money to renovate. Banks won’t give her a loan because they don’t consider the business a good risk.

  I think I’ve just found my next challenge.

  I stride down the driveway. I’m halfway to the front when Mrs. Shepperd opens her door. “We’re closed,” she calls out.

  Yeah, that part is obvious. “Hello, Mrs. Shepperd.” I give her my best winning smile, the smile I used to save for judges when I made my closing statement. “My name is Julian King. I’m Candace King’s grandson.”

  Only in Madison is my dead grandmother more of a celebrity than I am. Mrs. Shepperd’s puzzled expression clears. “Of course. You’re the guy who makes sausages. You’re living in her cottage now, aren’t you?”