Comedy of Erinn Read Online Free Page A

forget,” said Suzanna, stroking her pregnant belly, “Dorothy Parker died a lonely old woman.”
    Deep in thought over her sister’s words, Erinn frowned at the display of red and purple carrots. She absentmindedly held a large arrow-shaped Italian cauliflower to the sun. She loved the way the sun backlit the vegetable—you could see every detail outlined perfectly. Erinn could study the Italian cauliflower for hours—some would say it was an Italian broccoli, but she knew better. The florets grew in a spiral, one after another, according to a rhythm called the Fibonacci series, which was the origin of all aesthetic harmony according to Renaissance artists. Erinn marveled that proof of this medieval concept was sitting right in her hand.
    â€œExcuse me, madam,” said a deep, heavily accented voice behind her. “If you are not interested in that particular romanesco, would you allow me to purchase it?”
    Erinn realized her mind had wandered. How long had she been standing in front of this vegetable stand? She turned to apologize to the man behind her.
    â€œMi scusi, signore,” Erinn said. “Stavo sognando ad occhi aperti.”
    Erinn almost stumbled on her words—she was hoping she had said, “I was daydreaming”—as she turned around and took in the gorgeous man smiling at her.
    â€œHow did you know that I was Italian?” he asked.
    Erinn felt her face getting hot. She had always had a weakness for smoldering Italian good looks, but this man, with his liquid mercury eyes, was almost impossibly handsome.
    â€œI . . . I . . . you said . . . only Italians call this a romanesco. Most Americans don’t even know what it is!”
    Out of practice conversing with attractive men in any language, Erinn looked down at her feet.
    â€œAhh . . . you are so ripe you are ready to burst.”
    Erinn froze, then looked up, relieved to see the man had picked up a pear and was holding it up to the sun for inspection.
    â€œGorgeous, no?” he asked. “But you must have it; I will choose another.”
    He held the fruit out to Erinn.
    â€œOh, no,” she said, pushing it back toward him. “Please. It’s yours.”
    The man, with his thick head of graying hair, put out his well-manicured hand. “ Grazie. My name is Massimo Minecozzi.”
    â€œErinn Wolf.”
    â€œPiacere.”
    Erinn smiled and went about her business choosing fruits and vegetables. While she was studying the spaghetti squash, Massimo nodded good-bye and headed into the crowd. Erinn paid for her purchases quickly and tried to keep him in her sights. She followed him to the berry stand.
    â€œSo we meet again,” said Massimo when he caught Erinn’s eye.
    He had purchased several cartons of raspberries and was packing them gently into a well-designed grocery cart.
    â€œYou must be a big fan of raspberries,” Erinn said, trying to seem interested in some blueberries.
    Massimo shrugged. “The berries . . . they speak to me.”
    Erinn picked up a three-pack of assorted berries and indicated that she was ready to pay for them. Before the vendor could reach for her money, Massimo lifted the carton of the berries out of her hands.
    â€œThe blackberries are bruised,” he said. “Let me choose.”
    Massimo looked over the berries with an expert eye. Erinn was not one to sit on her tuffet while a man took the reins, but this man appeared to be some kind of berry expert. Massimo didn’t seem to find a carton to his liking, and instead created his own three-pack. He bowed slightly as he handed it to her.
    â€œThese are perfetto ,” he said.
    â€œGrazie, signore,” Erinn said.
    â€œHow is it that you speak Italian?”
    Erinn hesitated. She hadn’t spoken Italian in years and she was nearly breathless from the emotions that were bobbing to the surface—the bitter fighting with the sweet.
    â€œI have loved many, many