Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Crescent, Tara

  Shockingly, my mother is smiling. “A serious relationship? This is a first for you.”

  I can’t resist needling them. “Yes,” I say, my voice bone dry. “It's amazing what I can accomplish when I'm not working eighty hours a week.”

  My father snorts. We've had numerous arguments about my decision to quit law. They don't approve; they’re probably never going to approve. ‘Performing monkey’ is probably one of the milder things they’ve said. But in the end, they do realize that I'm in my thirties, and perfectly capable of making these decisions for myself.

  “Why don’t we grab a drink?” he suggests. “Ward mentioned that you've done a lot of work on the cottage. I'd like to see it.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s get Dakota, and head back.”

  I look around for her, but she's nowhere to be seen.

  That's weird.

  The last time I saw her, she was talking to her mother and her brother. I can’t find them either.

  Did she leave? She's had a pretty long, rough day. She wanted a shower and a drink. I don't blame her if she isn’t up to hanging out with my parents tonight. It's a lot to ask.

  But why would she leave without telling me?

  Unease simmers in my gut. “Hang on,” I tell my parents. “I'm going to look for Dakota.”

  I call her; it goes straight to voicemail. I walk through the park. I look in the kitchen, but she's not there. I walk up to Vicki, but she hasn't seen her. Mina Ahuja is talking to Mildred Bower, and I interrupt their conversation to ask if either of them has seen her.

  They haven't.

  I stride to the parking lot; her car is gone.

  She left without a word.

  I call her again. Still no answer.

  I have a very bad feeling about this.

  Rana finds me walking back from the parking lot. She catches sight of my face and stops in her tracks. “What's wrong?”

  “I can't find Dakota.”

  She gives me a strange look. “The last I saw her, she was talking to Roger Wexler,” she says. “Judging from the expression on her face, I don't think they were having a pleasant conversation.”

  King, you are the biggest fucking idiot in the world.

  No, it wouldn't have been a pleasant conversation. I can guess what Wexler would have said. He would have rubbed her near loss in her face. He probably would have made her an insultingly low offer on the Silver property.

  He’d upset her so much that she’d left without a word. Asshole.

  No, that’s not right. This is not on Wexler; this is on me. Roger Wexler is a dick, but that’s nothing new. He’s always been a dick.

  I had a plan. Instead of telling Dakota about it, I let her go into today's contest feeling like she was alone. I let her think that everything she'd worked for was at risk. When she needed me, I wasn’t there for her.

  All because I was too afraid to fail. Because this time, there’s no cushion. This time, if I fail, it would wreck me.

  Wexler is an asshole, but in a contest of asshole behavior, I'm the undisputed winner.

  I head back to where my parents are waiting. “I need to take a rain check on that drink,” I tell them. “I need to check up on Dakota.”

  My parents have a blind spot about my profession, but they're otherwise pretty mellow. “Of course,” my mother says. “Go do what you need to do. We’ll probably come down again for Canada Day, but this time, we’ll call before we head down.”

  I drive all through Madison. She's nowhere to be seen. She's not in her house, she isn’t in her restaurant. She is not at the Madison Brewpub.

  For two hours, I search for her. I drive down every dirt road that leads to the lake. I call her nearly a dozen times. Finally, when the sun is low in the sky, I give up and head back to my cottage.

  There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. I have a sneaking suspicion that I've ruined everything.

  27

  Dakota

  When I’m miserable, there’s always one place I go.

  To my mom.

  The light is on in the house, but I bypass it—I don’t want to talk to anyone; I want to be alone—and head to the lake. I clamber on a rock and stare out at the water.

  Here’s what I know.

  Julian isn’t actively trying to cause me harm. The worst thing I can say about him is that he’s not thinking about what will happen to me if I don’t get a permit.

  But the blame isn't just on him. This is as much my fault as his.

  He’s not a mind-reader. Every time we’ve talked about the contest, he’s comforted me by telling me things will be okay, but there’s no reason I can’t tell him I want more than reassurance.

  We’re both adults. We both have a responsibility to communicate our needs.

  It had been really difficult for me to ask him to talk to Neil Silver’s lawyers on my behalf. Asking him to quit the contest would have been so much harder, and I’m not sure if I could have done it.

  It’s easy to trade barbs with Julian, so much easier than asking him for help. When you ask someone for help, you are vulnerable.

  I’ve made a lot of progress in the last week. After a lifetime of avoiding relationships, I’m actually dating Julian. He’s my boyfriend.

  But I haven’t made as much progress as I think I have. When it comes down to telling him how much I need to win this contest, when it comes down to telling him about my fears, my hopes, my dreams…

  I can’t do it. I’m still afraid to let him in.

  I’m a coward.

  You know what the worst thing is?

  If I’d asked him, he would have walked away from the contest without hesitation.

  This isn’t Julian’s fault. It’s mine. All mine.

  I sit on the rocks for a very long time. I watch the sun set over the lake. Finally, I get to my feet.

  I have to talk to Julian. As tempting as it is to hide out here, Julian deserves so much better. He's always been honest with me, and he deserves that in return.

  On impulse, I stop by at The Frozen Spoon.

  Roger Wexler's right. Only a month ago, the place had looked in terrible shape. Peeling paint, a broken window, a driveway riddled with potholes… the place had exuded a sense of disrepair.

  Now, The Frozen Spoon is transformed. Baskets of flowers hang in the porch. Lights are strung over the deck. Even though it’s late, every table on the deck is occupied.

  Julian really likes ice cream. What was that flavor he’d been eating? Ginger rhubarb, that was it.

  I go inside. Mrs. Shepperd stands behind the display case. She smiles at me in greeting. “Hello, Dakota. What can I get you today?”

  “Could I get a pint of your ginger rhubarb to go?”

  “I'm afraid I’ve run out, dear.” She dips a spoon into another tub. “Try some of the strawberry jalapeno. I just made it.”

  My heart sinks. It’s not a sign of doom that she’s out of Julian’s favorite flavor, I tell myself firmly. It’s just ice cream. Get a grip.

  I take the offered spoon from her. The ice cream is delicious. The jalapeno adds an undertone of spice that complements the sweetness of the strawberry perfectly. “This is really good. Mrs. Shepperd. And the place looks great.”

  She beams. “Yes, it really does, doesn't it? Julian's such a force of nature. Before he came along, I was frozen. I need to install a wheelchair ramp, and I didn't have enough money to do it, and I thought that it was the end of The Frozen Spoon. Jim was gone, and I couldn't do this by myself. And look at it now.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “Julian has done a great job.”

  He’s done so much work here. He obviously wants this. I can't ask him to give it up for her.

  “Are you going to find a different location after you sell?” It’s none of my business, I know, but maybe Beth Shepperd would be interested in selling to restaurants. I’d stock her ice-cream at Dakota’s Pizza in a heartbeat. “Or are you planning to retire?”

  She draws herself up. “Retire?
I’m just sixty-six, dear. What would I do with myself once I retire? I’ve got at least ten years of work left in me.”

  I blink in confusion. What am I missing?

  “I’m not selling this place,” she continues. “I thought you knew that.”

  “You’re not? I thought Julian was buying the place from you.”

  She shakes her head. “No, that deal is off. He didn’t tell you? He came to see me earlier this week. He said he’d changed his mind about being in the restaurant business. He offered me a new deal. I’d make the ice cream, and Julian would do everything else in exchange for fifteen percent of the profits.” She smiles at me. “I’m pretty sure he would have done it for ten too.”

  “He did what?” I ask faintly.

  She nods vigorously. “He insisted I get the deal checked out. Told me to call a lawyer, so I did. You know what the guy told me? I'd never get a deal this favorable. Sign it as quick as you can, he said.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Well, I'd say, reading between the lines, that the boy is crazy about you, Dakota. I was at Haslam Park for an hour today. Julian looked at you the way Jim used to look at me.” Her smile turns sad. “He was my high school sweetheart, you know. The two of us were together for almost sixty years.”

  Julian doesn’t want to be in the restaurant business anymore? He'd withdrawn his offer on Mrs. Shepperd's place earlier this week?

  He did this for me.

  I have to talk to him. “Could I get a pint of the strawberry jalapeno?”

  She packages it up for me. Ice-cream in hand, I drive to Julian's place. His car’s in the driveway. He's at home.

  I knock. It takes him almost a full minute to answer. When he sees me, an expression I can't quite decipher flickers over his face. “Dakota.”

  “Can I come in?”

  He steps aside. “Of course.”

  I walk in. “I stopped by at Mrs. Shepperd's. She told me you gave up the restaurant. Is that right?”

  He leans against the door. “Yes, it is.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Dakota?” he asks. “I don't want to fight you, Dakota. I don’t need the restaurant permit. You do. It was a no-brainer.”

  I swallow hard. “But you're still in the contest.”

  “Sure,” he responds. “If I dropped out, I’d tip my hand, and then all of Hale’s sabotage efforts would be directed toward you.” He smiles faintly. “The only person I put my cards on the table for is you, Wilde.”

  “You told your parents you don't lose. I heard you.”

  “That’s why you ran away? You should have stuck around and heard the rest of what I said. Let’s see if I can remember. I don't lose. This isn’t about the contest, and it’s not about the permit. That’s not what I’m fighting for. Dakota’s the prize.”

  I stare at him, hope blooming in my heart. “You wanted the restaurant; I know you did. You gave up your dreams. For me.”

  Laughter dances in his eyes. “What a ridiculous idea,” he says. He looks into my eyes, and his expression softens. “My dream isn’t the restaurant, Dakota. It's you.”

  Dammit, King. I'm definitely going to cry.

  “Dakota, we’re a team, you and me. What kind of man would I be if I let the woman I love fail?”

  The woman I love.

  I blink the tears from my eyes and go up on tiptoe. His lips find mine. He kisses me, deep and passionate, his hands winding through my hair. “I love you, Julian,” I tell him. “I love you so much.”

  He kisses me again. “That’s exceedingly good to hear.” His face turns serious. “I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier. If I win, the permit is yours. And if you and me, working together, can't beat that asshole next week…”

  We’re a team, Julian and me. And together, we will be unstoppable.

  I hug him tight. He kisses my nose, his expression tender. “Thank you for defending me to my parents.” His lips tilt up. “‘He’s effortlessly good at everything he does.’ I like the sound of that.”

  I punch his forearm. “Jackass. Don’t you care that you won’t win the contest?”

  “Because of them, you mean?” He shakes his head. “Dakota, I’m in my thirties. I admit it irritates me that they only have one measure of success, but I’ve made my peace with it. In their own way, they love me.”

  “That's very mature of you.”

  “Yes,” he says smugly. “I have hidden depth.”

  “And there’s that giant Julian King ego that I know and love.” I hand him the ice-cream. “It’s strawberry jalapeno. You should put it away before it melts.”

  He opens the carton and scoops some ice cream on his finger. “Ooh, this is good. Thank you.” He quirks an eyebrow. “A long shower, a cold beer, and then bed?”

  I snuggle into him, my heart overflowing with happiness. “That sounds amazing.”

  28

  Dakota

  It's the day of the contest.

  Last night’s prep went off without a hitch. After we’d cleaned up for the night, Rana had cornered Julian and me. “There won’t be any more versions of the bus incident,” she’d said. “I have warned the Friendly Crown that if we have any reason to believe that the audience is anything other than genuine, we will disqualify them.”

  I turn to Julian as we wait to get started. “What are the chances that we can just cook today?”

  “Slim to none,” he says bluntly. No sugarcoating the truth for Julian King. “Hale is outnumbered, two to one. The odds are not in his favor, and he knows it. Brace yourself, Wilde. It’s going to be dirty.”

  Julian’s right. Not to mention that the sliders aren’t great, and Marvin Hale is making the same thing three weeks in a row. He shows no desire to leave his comfort zone.

  “Brace yourself, it’s going to be dirty? That sounds like something you’d say in bed.”

  He laughs. “Tonight,” he promises. “Good luck, Dakota.”

  I’ve been nervous about this tournament for weeks now. But now that we’re in the final stages, calm washes over me.

  It’s because of Julian. It’s because we’re a team. He won’t let me fail.

  I love him so much. I don’t care which one of us wins today. Because it doesn’t matter anymore.

  “You too, Julian. Knock them dead.”

  We discover Marvin Hale’s first dirty trick as soon as we open the refrigerator.

  Last night, Hale had made pickled onions. He’d filled three enormous mason jars with them, and he’d placed them in the refrigerator.

  Overnight, they’ve exploded.

  My tomato sauce, which was in a covered saucepan, is safe.

  But Julian’s sausages were in a container on the bottom shelf, covered by paper towels.

  They’re ruined.

  The vinegar has soaked through the paper towels and has pooled in the base of Julian’s containers. Worse than that, pieces of glass are everywhere.

  Pickles don’t explode, especially not quick pickles like the one Hale was making last night. I don’t know what Marvin Hale added to his vinegar to cause this reaction, but I know one thing with absolute certainty.

  This is deliberate.

  Rana swears when she sees the carnage. “What the hell?” she snarls.

  Marvin looks unconvincingly apologetic. “Fuck, man. I’m so sorry. It shouldn’t have exploded like that. I don’t know what happened.”

  Sure. I believe that.

  Julian stares at his sausages for a long time, his face expressionless. “Can you salvage this?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “It doesn't matter, Dakota. I’ll sort this out. Get back to work.”

  Fuck.

  Anger pulsing through me, I go back to my station. I turn my oven on to preheat it, and punch down my dough. I’m furious on Julian’s behalf. He’d worked really hard on those sausages. He’d made a traditional calabrese last night, and then he’d worked on a chicken, artichoke, and basil sausage, and finally, he’d
made a vegetarian version, with tofu, cilantro, chipotle, and lime.

  The only one left undamaged is the vegetarian sausage. It’s undoubtedly delicious, but I know Madison. Attitudes are slowly changing, but most of the residents regard tofu with suspicion.

  Poor, poor Julian. He doesn’t deserve this.

  He’s talking to Rana, Sarit, and Mark. I overhear snippets of their conversation. Julian looks unhappy, but finally, he nods curtly.

  “What’s going on?” I ask him when the camera crew isn’t within earshot.

  “The damn budget,” he says. “They’re allowing me to buy sausages, but if I use my product, I’ll have to pay full retail price. That’s why I’ve been making my sausages in this contest. Meat is cheaper.”

  “What can you do?”

  He grimaces. “Buy less. I’ll only be able to feed a hundred people.” He looks into my eyes. “I’m dead in the water, sweetness. You’re not. Kick some ass.”

  I’m so furious I’m shaking. I roll out the dough, add sauce, toppings and cheese.

  Then I open the oven.

  It’s dead cold.

  Of course, it is.

  This, Hale couldn’t have managed on his own. This bit of sabotage has got to be courtesy Roger Wexler.

  There are three sets of ovens in the space. I move over to the empty station that Don Mazzio had used a couple of weeks ago.

  His oven won’t work either.

  That only leaves one option. There’s only one other station that has an oven.

  Julian’s.

  Julian King likes to win; everyone knows that. Wexler and Hale must have assumed that Julian wouldn't trade places with me.

  They’re idiots. Even if Julian genuinely wanted to win, he would have traded places with me. And then he would've beaten everyone anyway, because that's what he does. Unlike Marvin, he doesn't need to cheat to win.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My oven’s out.”

  “Use mine,” he says calmly.

  I start to gather my stuff, and then I freeze. What the hell am I doing? Why does one of us have to win, and the other has to lose?