Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Crescent, Tara

  I suppress a snort. Valentina might be making fresh tortillas, but La Mesa, the chain restaurant she’s representing, definitely does not. I’ve eaten there. The portions are huge, but the flavor is underwhelming. Yes, I know that makes me sound like a total snob, but trust me, my snark is justified. Everything I’ve eaten on their menu is bland and tasteless.

  “Julian will be grinding meat and stuffing his sausages tonight,” Rana continues with a straight face.

  She’s a better person than me. She says ‘stuff his sausages’, and I can’t hold back my giggle. Julian hears me and grins. “You’re becoming as bad as me, Wilde,” he murmurs under his breath. “I love it.”

  I blush like a giddy schoolgirl. Gah.

  “And finally, Marvin will be making burger patties. They have four hours tonight.” She looks around at us. “If you’re all ready?”

  I nod, stomping on my wayward thoughts. Focus, Dakota.

  “Let’s get going. You may start… now.”

  13

  Dakota

  It's a little tight with all five of us. As we get underway, it quickly becomes clear that Don has very little experience working in a kitchen. The guy looks completely frazzled. He keeps looking at his recipe, his face red and his forehead beaded with sweat. He almost forgets to proof his yeast. He puts his bags of food on the floor next to him, and more than once, he trips over them.

  He looks terribly out of place.

  Julian notices too. He catches my eye and winks. “Apron,” he mouths.

  Jerk.

  I get to work, proofing my yeast, sifting flour and salt, adding water to make a dough. We’re expecting four to five hundred people tomorrow, and I’m making enough food for a hundred and fifty of them. To help speed up the process and make the kneading easier, I’ve got my stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. I let it work, and when the dough looks ready, I turn it out onto an oiled bowl, cover it with a muslin cloth, and put it in the oven to let it to rise.

  Then I look around again to see what everyone else is up to.

  Julian—of course I’d look at Julian first—is feeding meat through a grinder. So many jokes there. No doubt, he’s thought of all of them.

  Marvin is shaping ground beef into patties. He’s making sliders, so of all of us, he has the least amount of prep.

  Valentina is making tortillas, alternating rolling out the dough and cooking them on a griddle, her movements smooth and unhurried. I can smell the delicious aroma of slow cooking pork coming from her station, and my mouth waters.

  Don finally has his food processor running. I shake my head. He’s way behind. He’s going to run out of time.

  Speaking of time, I better get a move on. I still have to make my tomato sauce.

  Chef Onruang comes over to my station as I slice two dozen cloves of garlic, a camera guy trailing behind her. “You’re using canned tomatoes?”

  I nod. “This time of the year, fresh tomatoes just don’t have the flavor they do later in the season,” I reply. “At the peak of summer, we use local Ontario tomatoes, but the rest of the year, we find that canned tomatoes, especially the San Marzano, just taste better.”

  “I agree,” she says. “Everyone tells me I’m being crazy, but to me, greenhouse tomatoes don’t have the same taste as a sun-warmed, vine-ripened cluster.” She steps away to interview Julian about his sausages, and I exhale a breath of relief.

  Disaster strikes as I season my sauce. I scoop a palmful of red chili flakes into the saucepan, and, like a complete fool, touch my eye a few seconds later.

  It feels like it’s on fire.

  Idiot.

  I make my way to the sink, still clutching my jar of chili flakes. I rinse it out as best as I can, splashing water onto my face, cooling the reddened, burning skin. Eyes still watering, I head back, not paying very close attention to where I'm going.

  Someone’s barreling toward me. Don Mazzio, who’s finally realized he’s not going to be done in time. I dodge out of the way, and…

  …collide into a broad, muscled chest.

  Julian.

  My jar of chili flakes flies out of my hands and slingshots into orbit.

  Time slows down. I watch in horror as the jar start to fall. Chili flakes rain down.

  Some of them land on the ground.

  But most of the spice lands in the bowl of sausage meat that Julian King holds in his hands.

  The crowd gasps audibly.

  I clench my eyes shut and pray for the ground to open under my feet.

  It doesn’t.

  “Really, Dakota?” Julian chides, his voice mild. “You're that afraid I'll win?”

  My mouth falls open. I can't believe he’d think that I did that intentionally. My embarrassment drains away, and anger surges in its wake. “It was an accident,” I snap. “I don't need to sabotage you; I’m perfectly capable of winning on my own.”

  “Whatever you say, Wilde.” He goes back to the station, and scoops the chili flakes out of his meat. I want to march over and give him a piece of my mind, but I'm conscious of the cameras recording, so I bite my tongue and look around for a dustpan.

  Rana bustles over. “I'll handle the clean-up,” she says helpfully. “You have less than an hour left. Get back to work, Dakota.”

  By the time we’re done, my rage has drained away. I try to find Julian once I’ve cleaned up my station to apologize for the accident, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  Maddening.

  Saturday morning, we’re back at it again.

  I pull my dough out of the fridge; it's risen well overnight. I punch it down and set it to rise again. While it's doing that, I prep my toppings. I slice buffalo mozzarella, crumble feta and gorgonzola, and grate parmesan.

  Julian looks like he made three different kinds of sausages yesterday. Right now, he's quick-pickling onions, cauliflower and carrots. His knife work is impeccable. I watch him slice the onions into razor thin rings, his eyes barely watering from the fumes, and nerves prickle my skin.

  He looks just as home in the kitchen as any of us. Hell, he looks far more capable than Don, whose dough has barely risen overnight.

  He told me that he knew what he was doing; I should have believed him. Julian King is not used to failing. He does everything with overwhelming competence.

  Install a wheelchair ramp? No problem.

  File a cease-and-desist against the city and get them to refund fines they’ve been charging Mrs. Shepperd? Piece of cake.

  Give up your career, branch into something entirely new, and build a successful business in less than a year? Sounds about right.

  It’s infuriating.

  You’re obsessing about Julian King again, Dakota.

  I turn my attention to the others. Valentina’s chopping tomatoes, onions, and cilantro for a pico de gallo. Marvin is making coleslaw. Don is stirring his tomato sauce, a bored look on his face.

  Ah. Tomato sauce. I get mine out of the refrigerator and set it on the stove to bring it up to room temperature. Almost from habit, I taste it before I spread it on my dough.

  And I freeze.

  Somebody has tampered with my sauce. It is sickeningly sweet. Vile. Somebody has dumped almost a cup of sugar into it, and it is inedible.

  Salt, I could fix.

  Sugar? I’m shit out of luck.

  Cold realization spreads through me. Yesterday, Julian accused me of sabotaging him. Today, he’s taken revenge.

  Later, Dakota. For the moment, bury your anger and make a plan.

  I signal to Rana. “I ran into trouble. Can I get somebody to run to the grocery store for some new ingredients?”

  She considers my request, and then nods. “It'll still come out of your budget.”

  Phew. “I have room.”

  I gesture to Dominic, who’s in the crowd. “Can you go to the store and get me a quart of cream, a couple of sticks of butter, a pound of potatoes and some rosemary?”

  “What happened?”

  I give my twin an exasp
erated glance. “Is now really the time for questions?”

  “Fair enough,” he says mildly. He disappears into the crowd. While Dominic is gone, I try to make a plan of action, but I'm shaking with anger and it’s difficult to think.

  This is Julian’s doing, I just know it. He thought I sabotaged his meat yesterday, and to retaliate, he’s dumped sugar in my sauce. I can't lose my shit right now; I have too much to do. But when I’m done here, I swear I am going to make him pay.

  Ten minutes later, Dom’s back with my supplies. “Thank you,” I tell him fervently.

  It’s a mad scramble to the finish. I make a quick alfredo sauce, using the cream Dom just brought me and the parmesan I was planning to use in my four-cheese pizza.

  The margherita will have to be scrapped completely, the tomato sauce is a critical ingredient. In its place, I’ll be serving a potato and prosciutto pizza with alfredo sauce.

  I assemble the four-cheese pizza—using the fresh mozzarella in place of the parmesan—while cooking the alfredo sauce.

  I slice potatoes and sauté them with olive oil and rosemary. I make a hasty ragu-type meat sauce by chopping my last can of tomatoes and frying it along with the sausages and the mushrooms.

  Have I done enough? I have no idea. For the next three hours, I can't think about anything. I just have to cook and serve my food, and hopefully, not get eliminated in the first round.

  “Okay,” Rana says cheerfully, her microphone in her hand, her voice carrying through the assembled crowds. “I know you're all dying to hear the results. But first, a round of applause to our contestants, who served us some amazing food today. The Sausage King, We Knead Pizza, La Mesa, The Friendly Crown, and Dakota’s Pizza, thank you for your hard work.”

  Everyone claps.

  Julian looks relaxed. I'm so angry, I can barely glance in his direction. “Now,” Rana continues, beaming at the crowd. “The moment you’ve been waiting for. We've tallied up the ticket sales, worked out everyone's profit, and we've determined a winner. The winner of the first round is La Mesa. Valentina, congratulations. The tacos were a hit.”

  They did look amazing. La Mesa might not be a good restaurant, but there’s no denying that Valentina Greyson can cook.

  “Second place was a tie between Dakota’s Pizza and the Sausage King. Dakota, Julian, congratulations. If it makes you feel better, it was really very close between the top three.”

  Had it not been for the last-minute expense of cream, butter, and potatoes, I might have won this round. I clench my hands into fists, and my blood starts to boil.

  “Unfortunately, somebody has to come in fifth. I regret to say that the person who will not be joining us next week is We Knead Pizza. Don, I'm so sorry.”

  Don shrugs his shoulders. “What can I say? You win some, you lose some.” He lifts his voice and addresses the gathered crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am not the best cook there is, but I assure you, everyone in the We Knead Pizza kitchen, the real kitchen, is incredible.” He holds up a stack of paper. “I have coupons here for a free small pizza at any of the five We Knead Pizza locations in the area. Please come and see me before you go, and I will give you one.”

  Huh. Smart. I feel a reluctant stab of admiration for Don, who is spinning his loss in the best possible way.

  “Thank you, contestants. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks for the next round.”

  It’s over.

  Rage still simmering in my blood, I clean up my station. Julian’s gone by the time I look up. I go back home and take a shower to wash the smell of grease and garlic out of my hair.

  Then, I get into my car and I drive to Julian's cottage.

  The lights are off.

  The asshole isn’t at home.

  I turn back to town. I'm determined to find him. I walk into the Madison Brewpub to ask Vicki if she’s seen Julian anywhere, and who do I see the moment I walk in but the Sausage King himself, seated in a booth, a drink in front of him.

  I walk up to Julian. “You sabotaged my tomato sauce,” I snarl. “You deliberately put sugar in it so I'd be eliminated. This is how you want to play? Fine. From this point on, we’re at war.”

  Julian looks up. I realize he's not alone. Sitting with him is Rana Halabi, and she has a drink in front of her too.

  My red rage of anger evaporates.

  He's on a date.

  Bile rises at my throat. I feel sick to my stomach. Without another word, I spin on my heel and walk away.

  Of course, Julian didn't wait for me, why would he? My own father couldn't be trusted to stay. Men don't stick around. That's been the lesson of my entire life.

  14

  Julian

  Of course, I knew the chili flakes were an accident. When Dakota had run into me, she’d looked really horrified, and so I’d made a joke in an effort to lower the tension.

  My humor missed its mark. She didn't think it was funny; she thought I was accusing her of sabotage.

  When we were done Friday evening, I'd looked for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. Today, I tried to get a moment alone with her, but the damn camera crew was everywhere. Then, at the end of the contest, Rana had come up to me. “I'm meeting Luke for a drink at the Madison Brewpub,” she’d said. “You want to join us?”

  A cold beer had sounded really good. “One drink,” I’d said. “I can’t stay long.” I had to go find Dakota and apologize.

  She’d quirked an eyebrow but hadn't probed. We’d got to the pub and grabbed a couple of pints of Cat’s excellent American pale ale while we waited for Rana’s boyfriend to join us.

  We’d been catching up when Dakota stormed in. You sabotaged my tomato sauce,” she’d accused, rage threaded through her voice.

  Wait, what?

  “You deliberately put sugar in it, so I'd be eliminated,” she continues. “This is how you want to play? Fine. From this point on, this is war.”

  Then she turns around and walks out of the pub.

  I’m so stunned I don’t know how to react. I stare after her departing back. “Sabotage?” Rana asks. “What did she mean by that?”

  “Not a clue. Someone put sugar in her tomato sauce, and she thinks it’s me?” Does Dakota really think I’m capable of tampering with her sauce just so I win the restaurant permit? How ruthless and unscrupulous does she think I am?

  You’re taking advantage of Mrs. Shepperd’s cash flow issues to force her to sell, my conscience uncooperatively points out. That seems pretty ruthless to me.

  “She had to buy groceries today,” Rana says thoughtfully. “She was planning to make a margherita, but she switched it up at the last minute. I was going to ask her about it, but she seemed stressed, and the producer thought Don Mazzio made for better television. The guy had no idea what he was doing.”

  “She thinks that I believe that she spilled the chili flakes on me on purpose.”

  Rana frowns. “Do you? She didn’t. It was an accident. Mark, Sarit, and I discussed whether we should give you some extra time, but you seemed to handle it just fine.”

  “I know it was an accident. I scooped the chili flakes out, no biggie.” I shake my head. When the fuck is Rana’s boyfriend getting here? I need to go talk to Dakota. We spar verbally all the time, but this is different. “She thinks I was pissed enough about that that I would deliberately sabotage her? I didn’t do anything to her damned sauce.”

  “Yeah, I know that. It’s not your style. But somebody did.” Her lips narrow to a thin line. “I don’t like this. I'll review the tapes.”

  I look up. “You think one of the contestants did it?”

  “I don't know,” Rana replies. “Dakota’s sauce was in the refrigerator overnight. The building was locked up, but the key is in town hall. Sherri keeps it in her desk drawer.”

  She’s saying that a lot of people could have accessed the kitchen. But there’s only one person working in the town council that’s capable of active sabotage. “Wexler,” I say flatly. “I know why he doesn’t like me. But
why would he go after Dakota?”

  “You know what my dad would say,” Rana replies. “Follow the money. We Knead Pizza, La Mesa, and The Friendly Crown all applied for restaurant permits. But where are they going to be located? There aren’t many suitable buildings in town. We Knead Pizza is out of the race, but if La Mesa or The Friendly Crown want to open a restaurant here, they’re going to have to rent space.”

  “And Roger Wexler owns half the town.” I take a sip of my beer to calm myself. This is garbage. I don’t care about my restaurant—I’m Type-A enough that I want to win the contest, but it isn’t going to ruin me if I fail.

  On the other hand, Dakota has a lot to lose. The gossip mills tell me that the building she’s buying is in rough shape. Ben Watanabe doesn’t come cheap. Then there’s the property itself, right on Front Street. She would have paid a premium for it.

  Dakota doesn’t have parents who paid her way through law school. She doesn’t have a grandmother who left her a cottage in her will. She doesn’t have the cushion that eight years as an extremely well-paid lawyer have given me.

  She’s worked for everything she has. Now, the council is playing games with her life, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Wexler’s decided to play dirty.

  I’m really, really tired of Roger Wexler.

  Rana nods. “Exactly. You’re planning on buying Mrs. Shepperd’s property. Dakota bought Neil Silver’s place. If either of you win, Wexler loses out on a lucrative tenant. He has everything to gain from seeing the two of you fail.”

  She’s astonishingly well-informed. Then again, she works as Madison’s social media manager. Being in the know is practically in the job description. “Enough to rig the contest?”

  “Elections are in the fall,” she replies. “Roger Wexler is not a popular councilor. He won't win reelection. He's got one chance.”

  I give her an amused glance. “You know, you would make an excellent lawyer.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I see how well that worked out for you. My dad still works eighty-hour weeks, and he’s been a partner forever. No thanks, I’ll pass.”