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