Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Crescent, Tara

  Time to change the topic. “Are you going to let Liam know you're planning to move back to Toronto?”

  “No. That relationship ran its course.” She forces a smile on her face. “Okay, I have one last question about Julian. Did the Sausage King measure up?”

  Vicki has no filter. It's one of the things I like best about her. “Really? We’re going to talk about size?”

  “Hell, yes. Length, girth, circumcised or not, give me the gory details. I just broke up with Liam. I need all the distraction I can get.”

  I'm not easily prone to embarrassment, but my cheeks are flaming. “I refuse to describe Julian King's penis,” I say with dignity. “But I will say one thing. He was hung like a horse.”

  A throat clears. I look up, aghast, and meet Julian's laughing brown eyes. “Hung like a horse,” he repeats, his voice absolutely dripping with male satisfaction. “Why, thank you, Dakota.”

  Kill me. Kill me now.

  4

  Julian

  Hung like a horse.

  I’m practically whistling as I drive back to my cottage. To think, I almost hired a driver to handle deliveries. Dakota might have snarled at me, but there’s no denying she’d said it.

  I’m grinning like an idiot as I pull into my driveway. Skipping the house, I head to the commercial kitchen in the back. I’ve sunk an astonishing amount of money into this place, and it shows. Gleaming stainless steel is everywhere. Walk-in cooling unit, industrial freezer, refrigerated line station, industrial range hood… the list goes on and on.

  It’s worth every penny I spent.

  It’s almost four. I pull out my phone to check my messages. There’s a voicemail from Mildred Bower at the Legion. “Julian, could we order two hundred of the kielbasa Sidney Granger liked for our Victoria Day barbecue?”

  I can’t remember what Sid Granger sampled; it was four weeks ago. Checking my notes, I see that it was serdelki, the Polish equivalent to a frankfurter.

  The barbecue is to raise funds to buy the local hospital an MRI machine. I call Mrs. Bower back and confirm the order. “It’s on the house,” I tell her. “Just doing my part for the community.”

  She sounds thrilled. “Thank you so much, Julian. That’s really kind of you.”

  I grimace. I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart; donating the sausages is good PR. It’s a sound business decision, that’s all.

  I’m learning from the best. Dakota’s Pizza is extremely involved in the community. Dakota is not only generous with her money, but she’s also lavish with her time. She volunteers at the senior center. She serves on the library board. Everyone likes her. Everyone trusts her.

  Me? I spent six years as a litigator. People see me as a necessary evil. And of course, nobody trusts lawyers. Then again, given that I’m plotting about how to use the Legion’s fundraiser as free publicity for the Sausage King, they’re probably onto something.

  I finish my conversation with Mildred Bower. Almost as soon as I hang up, my phone rings again. I pick it up.

  “How’s the Sausage King these days?”

  I grin. Ward Lewington is one of my oldest friends. “I don’t go around calling myself that.” Honesty compels me to alter that statement. “Most of the time.”

  Ward groans. “Tell me you didn’t walk up to a woman and use either ‘sausage’ or ‘king’ as a pickup line, Julian.”

  I open my refrigerator and take stock of the empty shelves. I’m going to have to make a meat run soon. I’m running low on supplies. Madison is a grocery wasteland; I’ll have to head into the city this week. “I’d tell you that, but I’d be lying. In my defense, it wasn’t exactly a pickup line. I was trying to annoy someone.”

  “Dakota.” The amusement in his voice comes through clearly. “It’s Dakota, isn’t it?”

  A year ago, I’d made the mistake of mentioning Dakota to Ward. Should have known better. The guy has a mind like a steel trap. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” I ask, ignoring his question. “If you’re calling to whine about your love life, you already know what I’m going to say. Tell Dixie how you feel about her.”

  “Dix is dating someone else, remember?”

  I’m an ex-lawyer. Ruthlessness is in my blood. “She’s dating Charles Blumenthal. The guy is a waste of space. Break them up.”

  Ward doesn’t bite. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “You’d prefer to be miserable watching them together? They’ve been dating for three years. Any moment now, Blumenthal is going to pop the question. You know that.”

  He sucks in a breath. Guilt pinches at me. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’re right.” I hear the resignation in his voice and feel like a jerk. “I called to catch up. Tell me how the business is doing.”

  “Pretty good. I’m cash-flow positive.”

  “Already?” Ward whistles. “Nice job. I’m assuming you’re depreciating the kitchen expense?”

  Ward’s an accountant, and a pretty good one. “Yeah, I am. The kitchen cost a hundred and fifty grand. It’ll take the business at least five years to pay it off.”

  He snorts. “Pay off what? You didn’t get a loan for it. What was the size of your last bonus check?”

  I start making a shopping list as I chat with Ward. “Fair enough. This isn’t an expensive hobby though. I want Sausage King to be a viable business.”

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You think it’s going to make your parents respect your decision to quit law.”

  My hand freezes in the air. I tighten my grip on the pen. “I’m thirty-four. I don’t need my parents’ approval to do anything.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t want it,” Ward says pointedly.

  He needs to drop this topic. My parents are a sore spot. “I also made a verbal offer on a failing ice-cream store. I’m thinking of opening a restaurant.”

  Ward laughs out loud. “Of course, you are. Only you, Julian. You quit BCF because you were done working a hundred hours a week. Instead of going the safe route and joining some Fortune 500 company’s corporate counsel, you decided you were going to make sausages.” He chuckles. “You were going to relax, you told me. Instead, the second you’ve hit your first milestone, you’re already taking on something new. Have you ever considered doing less, not more?”

  I wince. I’d said the same thing to my father last January. He’d had a bad cancer scare. He’d sworn that he was going to prioritize his family, not work. For three years, he went through radiation, chemo, the works. Then, the instant the doctors gave him a clean bill of health, he was back to working eighty hours a week.

  The job is a drug, and he can’t give it up.

  Fredrick King’s cancer diagnosis had made me reexamine my own life. But am I making his mistakes all over again?

  “I might be a little Type A.”

  “You think?” he asks dryly. “Also, a failing ice-cream store in a beach town? That’s not possible, is it?”

  “You’d be surprised. Beth Shepperd is in her sixties. Her husband died unexpectedly. He did their taxes. She’s behind on payment, has no money to fix the place up, can’t get a loan either, and, unless she gets a wheelchair ramp installed, she can’t open for the season.”

  “Julian, you’re robbing an old lady.”

  Guilt stabs me again. “Hey,” I protest. “I’m paying a fair market price.”

  “You’re taking advantage of a cash flow crisis.” Ward sounds disapproving.

  “Roger Wexler is taking advantage of a cash flow crisis, not me.” I can’t keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “He lowballed Mrs. Shepperd. He offered to pay one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a property that’s worth double that. I countered with three-fifty. I’m not the villain in this story, Ward.”

  “If you say so. On a different note, what are you doing Victoria Day weekend?”

  Wallowing in misery, probably.

  I just don’t understand Dakota. We’d been great together, and no, I’m not blowin
g smoke up my ass. If the sex was bad, we wouldn’t have done it over and over again that night. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she left in the middle of the night, why she blew me off the day after, and why she’s so snippy every time she sees me.

  Four times.

  Four bone-shattering orgasms.

  I shouldn’t tease her. I shouldn’t verbally spar with her every time I see her. I’m like a kid in kindergarten, pulling on the pigtails of the girl I like. It’s juvenile and demented.

  “Nothing, really. You want to come down? There’s plenty of room here, and I have a refrigerator filled with beer.”

  “You sure? Cause if you’re offering, I’m going to take you up on it.”

  I shake my head. This situation with Dixie really has Ward down. I can relate. “I’m offering. Come on up. It’ll be good to hang out.”

  My phone beeps. I glance at the screen. Unknown number. “Hey Ward, I’ve got to run. Talk later?” I switch callers. “Julian King here.”

  “Julian, it’s Tim Pollard. We met last December?”

  I frown. Why is the town councilor calling me? “At the holiday parade.” Thank heavens for a working memory. “Hello, Mr. Pollard. How can I help you?”

  He clears his throat and sounds embarrassed. “I have a rather large favor to ask. My daughter Elise got engaged last month. She’s throwing an engagement party on Saturday, but her caterer just went out of business.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Indeed. It’s supposed to warm up next weekend. The motels are booked up. Every restaurant in town is bracing for the first flood of tourists. None of them can cover the party in the last minute.”

  Always say yes to the town council. “I’d be happy to help, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

  He exhales in relief. “Thank you so much.”

  “Not a problem. Sausages aren’t exactly elegant…”

  He laughs. “Neither is Elise. The party is in Haslem Park at six in the evening. A hundred and fifty guests, if you can believe it.”

  I definitely need to go shopping. At least the venue’s easy. The city put in a community kitchen in Haslem Park last summer. There’s a grill, outdoor and indoor ovens, sinks, the works.

  “Got it. I’ll be there at five to set up.”

  “Perfect. Oh, I almost forgot to mention. I asked Dakota Wilde to serve pizza too, so you’ll have to share the space.”

  A smile spreads over my face. I find out Dakota thinks I’m hung like a horse, and now this?

  Excellent.

  This week is off to a flying start.

  5

  Dakota

  This week is crap.

  Monday: Saw Julian jog. Julian caught me staring. Bad.

  Also Monday: Julian invited me to sleep with him again. For a brief second, until my brain caught up with my idiot libido, I’d seriously considered it.

  The real kicker—and yes, still Monday—he heard me say that he was hung like a horse.

  After that spectacularly poo-filled start, the week should pick up, right?

  Spoiler: It does not.

  Tuesday, I don’t run into Julian, but he’s the main topic of conversation at Daily Grind. “I ran into Beth Shepperd last night,” Mildred Bower says to Sally McKee as they both wait in line. “She said that Julian King wants to buy her business.” She looks around and lowers her voice. “Did you know Roger Wexler had made her an offer? One hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “No.” Sally draws herself up, an outraged look on her face. “He didn’t.”

  Mildred has a carrying sort of voice. The Daily Grind isn’t large. Everyone in the shop is listening to this conversation. Me included.

  Mildred nods earnestly. “He told her the place needed to be fixed up. Told her she wouldn’t get a better price.”

  Sally McKee doesn’t like Roger Wexler any more than I do. Her lips tighten. “Why didn’t Beth talk to someone?”

  “You know Beth,” Mildred replies. She shuffles forward and orders a green tea. “She doesn’t like asking for help.” She moves closer to Sally, and finally remembers to lower her voice. “The city fined her for not mowing her lawn.”

  “What?” This time, it’s Sally’s voice that fills the shop. “It’s the end of April. Everyone’s grass looks like a mess.” She shakes her head, her expression grim.

  She’s thinking what I’m thinking. There’s really only one conclusion anyone can draw, and that is the obvious one. Roger Wexler is abusing the power of his office, fining Mrs. Shepperd for all kinds of frivolous things, so that he can drain her of money and force her to sell to him.

  And Julian’s just prevented that from happening. He’s a fucking hero.

  Sure enough, that’s exactly what Mildred says next. “That Julian King. Such a nice young man. I called to order some sausages for our barbecue, and he wouldn’t take money for it. And do you know, he’s putting in a wheelchair ramp at The Frozen Spoon tomorrow?”

  Gah.

  I hate myself for it, but on Wednesday, I actually drive by the Frozen Spoon. Sure enough, Mildred was right. Julian is there, in all his shirtless splendor, muscles flexing as he cuts boards with a power saw.

  I’m ashamed to admit I ogle. I drive by once, twice, three times. I stare at the raw masculine perfection on display, and then, like a little chickenshit, I run away before Julian can realize I’m checking him out.

  Anytime you want the king again, sweetness, you just have to ask.

  The real kicker comes Thursday. Tim Pollard calls me. “Dakota, I almost forgot to tell you. I felt terrible about asking you to cater Elise’s party when you’re an invited guest and a friend of the family, but…”

  “It’s no problem, Tim,” I interrupt. “You know that.”

  “Yes, still. I asked Julian King if he’d cater as well, and he said he was happy to. Good guy, Julian. He’ll be bringing sausages. This way, you won’t have to make food for all hundred and fifty guests. Just half of them.”

  I stare at my phone in shock and horror. “You asked Julian King to cater Elise’s party?”

  Tim completely misreads my tone. “Yes, I thought you’d be relieved. See you on Saturday, Dakota. And thank you again.”

  I will be catering Elise’s engagement party—a party that both my mother and my brother will be attending—along with Julian King.

  Sandra Flanigan’s eagle eyes will be on me.

  Dom has twin radar. He probably also knows I slept with Julian last year.

  In Madison, Julian King, a single, eligible man, is something of a unicorn.

  My mother has babies on the brain. Dom and Cat have a wedding Pinterest board. They’ll be watching me. Watching my reaction to Julian.

  I’ll have to pretend I don’t want to strangle him. I’ll have to pretend that he has no effect on me. I’m going to have to be on my best behavior.

  This has disaster written all over it.

  Julian’s already at Haslem Park when I get there. I’m wearing a purple and blue floral-patterned dress. Julian’s eyes light up. “You look very pretty.”

  “Thank you.” There. See? I can be well-behaved.

  He looks almost surprised that I don’t have a snappy comeback. “You’ve got stuff in the truck?”

  “I can handle it.” I can’t really, not in the shoes I’m wearing, but I’m not going to admit that to Julian.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Dakota,” he says. “I’ve got this.” His lips curl up. “You can flutter your eyelashes and tell me how strong I am.”

  I roll my eyes. “My hero.”

  Elise’s car pulls up, and she and her fiancé Trey get out. “Dakota,” she squeals, throwing her arms around me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  I laugh and hug her back. “You look fantastic.” She’s wearing a pale pink sundress that looks amazing against her dark skin.

  “So do you.”

  Trey grins at his fiancée’s exuberance and holds out his hand to Julian. “Trey Jackson.”


  Julian shakes it. “Julian King. Congratulations on your engagement.”

  “Thank you for bailing us out like this.” He wraps his arm around Elise’s waist. “I really appreciate it.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “To be honest, I’m much more excited about pizza and sausages than whatever the hell Minerva was making.”

  Elise shakes her head, but she has a fond smile on her face. “Can we do anything to help?” she asks the two of us.

  I shoo her away. “It’s your engagement party. Go enjoy it. We’ve got this under control.”

  Once Elise and Trey are safely out of earshot, I turn to Julian. “Do you even know what you’re doing, or am I going to have to babysit you all evening?”

  His teeth flash in a grin. “And there it is. I thought you’d lost your edge, Dakota. I was beginning to get quite worried.” He sets up his station quickly, his movements smooth and practiced. “I spent my gap year working in kitchens in Germany. That’s where I learned how to make sausages.” He winks at me. “I know how to handle my meat, Wilde.”

  Huh. I didn’t know that about Julian. “And here I thought you decided to make sausages for the jokes.”

  “The jokes were a strong selling point.” He takes a half-step toward me. My heart starts to race at the intent, predatory look in his eyes.

  His voice turns intimate, as if we’re in my bedroom all over again, and he’s unbuttoning my shirt, kissing every bit of skin he uncovers. “Before we’re done tonight,” he says, each word holding a promise of dark sin and uncontrolled pleasure, “You’ll eat my sausage, and you’ll admit it was the best you’ve ever had.”

  It takes a second for the words to penetrate my lust-addled mind.

  The jackass.

  He deliberately baited me.

  I have provocation. If I wrap my hands around his neck right now and squeeze, there’s not a jury in the country that would convict me.

  I hear the sound of voices. Tim has arrived, along with my mother, Dom, and Cat.