Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Crescent, Tara

  Pressure from the city will work to my advantage. It is in my best interest to do nothing and let Mrs. Shepperd fight her own battles.

  Julian, you’re robbing an old lady, Ward's disapproving voice rings in my ears.

  I shrug that aside; I've a lot of experience ignoring Ward.

  Then I picture Dakota's face. I imagine her look of contempt when she realizes that I could've helped, but instead chose to do nothing.

  Damn it.

  Biting back a curse, I make my way up the ramp and knock on the door. After a couple of minutes, it opens. “Julian,” Beth Shepperd says, her voice flat and drained of life. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ben told me you got a notice from the city.”

  She sighs. “It's more of Wexler's harassment,” she says, sounding defeated.

  What is it this time? It can't be the lawn: I mowed it after I installed the wheelchair ramp. “What's going on?”

  “Sherri told me I needed to get my restaurant permit modified to include the deck,” she says. “Jim always took care of stuff like that. I was nervous about it, but Sherri helped me fill out the form, and she told me it was routine.”

  “They denied it?”

  She nods. “Yes, they did. I got the notice today.”

  The pulse of anger takes me by surprise. “Can I see it?”

  “If you'd like.” She disappears inside and returns with a piece of paper. I scan it. The note from the city is brief and is signed by Roger Wexler.

  It rejects Mrs. Shepperd's permit modification. “You may not use the deck as additional seating,” he writes, the odious fucker. “If we find that food or drink is being consumed on the deck, please note that you will be fined.”

  My temper flares. “It's outside,” Mrs. Shepperd says, her voice hopeless. “On a nice sunny day, how am I supposed to stop people from hanging out on the deck?”

  She'll have to block it off. Customers will grumble. Mrs. Shepperd will be caught between a rock and a hard place.

  Her eyes fill with tears. “Jim was always going to put a deck,” she says. “He handled the paperwork. He would've known what to do. I should know more about my business, I know, but the truth is, all I ever wanted to do was make ice cream. He took care of the business stuff, and I got to experiment.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “A year later, and I miss him every day.”

  I can't do a damn thing about her pain. The city, on the other hand, is a problem I can help her with. “Jim was going to build a deck?”

  “Two years back. He even got a building permit.”

  “Why didn’t he build it?”

  “He was a contractor. He got busy with another job. You know what they say. The shoemaker’s kids go without shoes.”

  While The Frozen Spoon never made much money, from all accounts, it ran like a well-oiled machine when Jim Shepperd was alive. Mr. and Mrs. Shepperd really did have a perfect partnership. She made delicious ice-cream, and he took care of everything else.

  I follow a hunch. “Do you have a copy of the deck permit? Can I see his paperwork?

  Her eyebrow arises. “Sure,” she says. “Come on in. Jim filed everything. It's probably still in the office.”

  I follow her into the room and stop dead in my tracks. Evidently, neither Jim nor Beth Shepperd believed in throwing anything away. There are three shoulder-high filing cabinets in the office. This is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  I start opening drawers at random and rifling through files. It’s not as bad as it looks. Jim Shepperd saved everything, but he was methodical. Less than twenty minutes of searching, and I hit pay dirt.

  Mrs. Shepperd is in the kitchen. I knock on the open door. “Your restaurant permit already covers the deck,” I tell her. “Your husband filed an extension with the city and got approval the year he was planning to build the deck. The city sends you a renewal notice every year, and you’ve been paying it. You don’t need a new permit.”

  She looks confused. “Wouldn't the city have known that?”

  I nod grimly. “They should have,” I reply. “They should have searched through the records when they received your application.”

  Except Roger Wexler is still furious that Mrs. Shepperd turned down his offer. I know what this is. This is a petty act of spite. This is corruption, pure and simple, and this is bullying.

  No matter how cynical lawyers are, and trust me, we’re cynical bunch, every lawyer I've met—including myself—went into the profession in order to make a difference. To make the world a better place, to see that justice was upheld.

  Wexler's harassment of Mrs. Shepperd is flagrant injustice, and I'd be damned if I'm going to sit by and watch him get away with it.

  “Mrs. Shepperd, would you be interested in hiring me as your attorney?”

  She gives me a puzzled look. “I thought you were retired.”

  “I quit my job, but I'm still a member of the Ontario Law Society,” I reply absently, thinking about next steps. “I’m still licensed.” I'm a litigator. I have to do some research before I draft my reply to the city of Madison. Probably get on the phone and talk to some of my ex-colleagues who have more experience dealing with this kind of matter.

  “I can't afford you.”

  I nod toward her display. “I'll take a cone of that ginger rhubarb as a retainer.”

  She gives me a very peculiar look. “Julian King,” she says. “Wouldn't it make more sense for you not to help me?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then why are you helping me? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  I laugh shortly. “I'm an ex-lawyer, Mrs. Shepperd. We don't have hearts. Wexler’s bullying you. I loathe bullies.”

  She gives me another curious look. “Thank you for your help,” she says. She goes behind the freezer and reaches for a cup. I shake my head at once. “Sugar cone, please.”

  She laughs. “Candace was the same way,” she says, referring to my dead grandmother. “She would come in every week in the summer. Always asked for a sugar cone.” She smiles at me. “She liked the ginger rhubarb too.”

  “I know. She always had some in her freezer when I visited.”

  As a kid, I lived for July and August, for lazy swims in the lake, my grandfather’s smoked beef brisket, my grandmother’s potato salad, all the pie and ice-cream I could eat, and above all, for the abundance of love and affection my grandparents showered me with.

  All my life, my grandmother was the only person who didn’t automatically assume I’d become a lawyer like my parents. She was the only one who encouraged me to follow my dreams. She left me the cottage in her will.

  She died last March. I miss her every day.

  I tuck the notice in my back pocket, take the ice cream cone Mrs. Shepperd hands me, and head back up the driveway, waving goodbye to Ben Watanabe.

  Dakota walks by as I reach the street. She stops in her tracks and takes in my ice-cream. “Enjoying yourself?”

  The sun beats down on us. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and I'm nursing a sense of well-being. I give her a wide, cheerful smile. “Well, I really prefer to be licking something else, but since you’re not offering, Dakota…” I wink at her. “I have to make do with ice cream.”

  She goes red, and then she laughs and shakes her head. “Do you ever give up?”

  “Admit it. If I did, you’ll be bored.”

  She laughs again. “I would be bored,” she agrees.

  My ice cream is melting. Some of it drips down the side of the cone. Dakota scoops it up with her finger, and then puts it in her mouth and sucks, smiling wickedly at me.

  I shake my head, my lips curling into a grin. “Bad girl.”

  “Very tasty,” she purrs. “I'll see you around, King.”

  I think I’m in love with her. “I like that you're calling me King. Do that when we’re in bed again, will you?”

  Her eyes dance with amusement. “In your dreams, wiener-boy.” She turns around, flips me off over
her shoulder, and walks away.

  I head back home, a smile on my face. It's going to be a good week.

  12

  Dakota

  For the next two weeks, Julian King is everywhere.

  When I'm not running into him, I'm hearing about him. I walk into the Daily Grind coffee shop one morning, and Sherri is there, talking to Kellie Krasinski. She waves me over. “Did you hear what Julian King did?” she asks, looking ready to burst with the news.

  “Not a clue. Odd as it may seem, I don't keep track of Julian King’s movements.”

  I think you're protesting too much, Dakota.

  Kellie gives me a strange look, but thankfully, Sherri, who’s by far the bigger gossip, doesn't notice. Instead, she fills me in on the situation. “It all started when Roger Wexler turned down Beth Shepperd's permit,” she says. “I helped her file it myself; everything was done correctly. Roger was just being difficult.”

  No surprise there. Wexler is a petty douchebag. Still, even for him, this is too much. First the lowball offer, and now this.

  “Poor Mrs. Shepperd,” I say sympathetically. I can relate to the Town Council’s capricious whims. “I guess Roger took a dim view of her turning down his offer.”

  “Oh, he did more than that,” Sherri says, her voice vibrating with anger. “It turns out that The Frozen Spoon had already been granted a permit to use the deck. Jim filed the expansion request when he got a permit to build the deck, two years ago.”

  I frown. “Then why…?”

  “I checked the records myself,” Sherri continues. “But the permit approval notice wasn't there. Somebody took that record out from our files. If Julian King hadn't found a copy, Mrs. Shepperd would've never known that her permit had already been approved.”

  My mouth falls open, as does Kellie’s. Surely Wexler wouldn’t… “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I can’t prove it,” she says. “Nobody knows where the permit approval went.”

  “How does Julian King fit into this story?” Kellie asks.

  “He’s Beth Shepperd’s lawyer. He wrote to the city, threatening to sue. The full Council met when they received his letter. They freaked out. Sally McKee looked up Julian's record as a litigator. Do you know, he’s never lost a case?” Sherri shakes her head. “Sure, Wexler owns half the town. But still, what the hell is he doing messing with somebody like that?”

  Wexler thought he was messing with somebody who couldn't fight back. He would have got away with it too, if Julian hadn't stepped in.

  “Let's just say Roger Wexler won’t be making any unilateral decisions anytime soon. The council wrote Beth Shepperd an apology, and also refunded her the fines they’d already collected for the state of her lawn.”

  Once again, Julian King is the town hero.

  That weekend, The Frozen Spoon officially opens for the first time in the season. The deck is draped with bunting, loudspeakers play music, and it's a party. Mrs. Shepperd, looking happier than I've seen her in the last year, hands out samples of her sinfully delicious ice cream to everyone who drops by. Julian's there, leaning against the deck railing, smiling lazily, another ice-cream cone in his hand.

  I walk over to him. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as an ice cream type.”

  He smiles easily. “I like sugar.”

  “I heard you saved Mrs. Shepperd’s store.”

  “Hardly. I wrote a letter. It took less than an hour.”

  “That’s good. What do hotshot Toronto lawyers bill for that?”

  He licks the ice cream, and my insides tighten. Damn it, King. Why the hell are you so irresistible? “I wouldn’t know,” he replies. “I’m retired.” His eyes twinkle. “I make sausages now. Perhaps you've heard of my business? It’s called the Sausage King.” His lips twist up. “More meat than you can handle.”

  “You’re not getting paid for your legal work?”

  “I always get paid.” He holds his cone out. “A lifetime supply of ice cream, that’s what I was promised.”

  I have to laugh. “You’re getting paid in ice cream?”

  “Mm-hmm. Incidentally, if you’re going to do that thing with the ice cream and your finger again, stand in front of me, will you?”

  “Why?”

  He fixes his chocolate brown eyes on me. “This is a family-friendly establishment, Dakota. There are children around. It’s an inconvenient place for an erection.”

  I swallow hard at the heat in his eyes, the ragged edge in his voice. I want him. He seems to want me too. Maybe we could date and see where this thing between us can go.

  There's a part of me that's always been reluctant to get involved with anyone. I don’t need a therapist to realize that it’s because of the way my father left. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t around. It was the cold-blooded nature of the act. He woke up one morning, decided he was done with his wife and family, and just walked away.

  It’s that same part of me that dismisses Julian’s interest. He just wants what he can't get, I’ve decided. He likes the chase. The moment I give in, he'll lose interest.

  But maybe I'm wrong.

  “The first round is next week. Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “I went online and ordered an apron. It's short, frilly, and red.” He lowers his voice. “You’ll look sensational in it, Wilde.”

  I give him an exasperated look. “Don't get ahead of yourself. You still have to cook, you know. You’re going up against people who have been doing this longer than a year.”

  He gives me a lazy smile. He licks his ice cream again, and my skin prickles with desire. Heat shivers through me. “I'm looking forward to it,” he says softly.

  Me too. I try to think of all the reasons I shouldn't be with Julian, but nothing occurs to me. I'm looking forward to the first round. I’m secretly hoping he won’t be eliminated. I want to lose the bet. I want to end up in bed with Julian again.

  The intensity of my need takes my breath away.

  Dakota, I tell myself. You’re screwed.

  The days speed by in a blur of renovations, tourists, unreliable suppliers, and staffing problems. Teresa Barbini, who is my most reliable employee, twists her ankle, and I have to cover for her in the kitchen for three days until she is well enough to walk again. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Before I know it, it's the Friday of the first round of the contest.

  The five of us show up at Haslem Park. When the council had sprung their Great British Bake-Off homage at us, I’d been too taken aback to pay attention to the other restaurateurs, but today, I take stock of them.

  Marvin Hale, who represents The Friendly Crown, a chain of generic pubs scattered all over the province, is skinny, about five-ten, with greasy hair and ears that stick out. He’s wearing a faded Metallica t-shirt and jeans.

  At least he has good taste in music.

  Valentina Greyson is about my height. Great boobs, fantastic ass. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she looks focused and ready.

  Don Mazzio of We Knead Pizza is a big guy. He’s six feet tall. His shoulders are broad, and he looks like an aging linebacker, his muscles turning into fat. “This is stupid,” he murmurs to me. “It’s Victoria Day weekend. The tourists are out in force, and we’re wasting our time here.”

  Tell me about it, buddy.

  Rana’s already at Haslem Park when I arrive, as are the filming crew. She introduces us to the judges. “There’s going to be three of us,” she says. “Chef Sarit Onruang, the head chef at Nam Pla. Mark Miller, a producer at Television Ontario. And finally, me. Of course, we won’t be judging your food as much as enforcing the contest rules and making sure everything’s going smoothly. Our opinions aren't the ones that matter. It's how well your food resonates with the crowd that counts.”

  The next step is to look over our ingredients and audit our receipts. Mark Miller looks at my stuff. “What are you making?” he asks. “Pizza, of course, I know that. What kind of top
pings?”

  “I figured I’d stick to the classics,” I reply. “I’m making a sausage, prosciutto and mushroom pizza, a four-cheese blend with pesto, and finally, a margherita with tomato sauce, buffalo mozzarella, and fresh basil.”

  “Very nice,” he says approvingly. “And for the sausage, are you using your competitor’s product?”

  Julian overhears us. “Dakota isn’t interested in my wares,” he says. “Yet. I’m hoping to change her mind this weekend.”

  He’s not talking about his sausages. I return his glance, my throat dry. This time tomorrow, the first round will be over. And, if Julian doesn’t get eliminated, I’ve agreed to go over to his house and cook dinner for him. Naked.

  I’d tell myself it’s irritation that’s making me flush, but I’m not that good a liar, especially to myself. Anticipation claws through me, restless, eager, impatient.

  Last year, almost to the day, I’d ended up in bed with Julian for the first time. A year later, and need still courses through my blood. I thought that time would temper my desire. It has not.

  I force my attention back to the contest. Even though this evening is prep work, and we’re not serving food, a crowd has gathered at the park. People have brought picnics, folding chairs, blankets, and frisbees. A group of teenagers is kicking around a football.

  Dom and Cat are here too. “Come on, Dakota,” Cat calls out. “Show them what you’ve got.”

  I laugh at her enthusiasm and wave to her. “Okay,” Rana says, once the ingredient check is complete and the camera crew has set up their equipment. “Let’s get going.” One of the television people hand her a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says. “I’m delighted to announce the First Annual Madison Cook-Off. For three weeks, our contestants are going to dazzle us with their food and wow us with their creativity.”

  Umm, okay. Also, First Annual Madison Cook-Off? This is going to be a recurring event? Kill me.

  “Tonight,” Rana continues. “Our contestants will be prepping their food. Our two pizza makers will be working on their dough. Valentina is making tacos, and she’ll be making her corn tortillas from scratch.”