Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) by Veronica Bell

kind of volunteer work Sigrid did in Toronto, only with a much more beautiful backdrop. The shelter had an indoors with a welcome centre for visitors, cages for injured animals or those waiting to be spayed or neutered. It had an adoption centre with cats of all ages, sizes and colours.
    And it had an outdoor section, around the ruins below street level, where the cats who had been spayed and neutered but were too feral for adoption lolled about, charmed tourists and Romans alike, and ate at the feeding stations situated among the ancient columns.
    The ladies had greeted her warmly and complimented her Italian. “Yes,” they said, “We can always use volunteers, but the work is not glamorous. You will be cleaning litter boxes, giving insulin injections to diabetic cats, putting food out both indoors and outdoors, cleaning the dishes up afterward, grooming cats when needed and helping with transport of supplies and cats when necessary.”
    “ Sarei felice , I would be happy to do any and all of that,” Sigrid assured them. And she was. Christmas was one of the busiest times at any animal shelter. Sigrid knew this from experience. Not only did people go shopping for pets at Christmas, but tragically, people also abandoned pets they had been given during the holidays once they discovered that a pet is not a piece of furniture, but rather a sentient being requiring care and patience.
    So this was how, a week before Christmas on a rainy, gray weekday morning, Sigrid found herself stringing up some extra decorations—a wreath and a Babbo Natale , the Italian equivalent of Santa—on the front door of the sanctuary’s greeting centre. She was having a heck of a time getting the wreath just right and it didn’t help that one of the outdoor cats had decided that the shoelaces on Sigrid’s Chuck Taylors made great toys.
    “Careful, kitty,” she admonished. “I don’t want to step on you. Plus, you’re making it hard for me to concentrate.”
    “You need to say that in Italian. He’s an Italian cat.”
    Sigrid froze. That voice. She hadn’t even felt his presence behind her or heard him coming down the steps. He had just sort of appeared, as he had the night she met him. She was thrilled. And she was terrified. Dealing with the feelings Sandro inspired was more difficult than dealing with heartache. If only he would just stay away. And yet, she was happy he hadn’t.
    She turned and faced him. Sandro was looking oddly vulnerable—again all in black but this time wearing a winter coat and with an elegantly-tied red scarf, a perfect festive touch, a nod to the season. His hair was wet from the weather and pasted to his cheeks, his lips sexier than she remembered. And oh, how she remembered. Before she went all mushy, she reminded herself of their last conversation and how unkind he had been, how insulting. Straightening up, she said, “You’re right. I’ll tell him that in Italian. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to get back to my work.”
    “I see you took my advice,” he said.
    “What? About working here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Yes, well, it’s nearly Christmas and it is a good cause.”
    “I have some news about Pinot you might like: his surgery went well and after a week in recovery at the animal hospital he is now in his new home and doing perfectly, all things considered. Thanks to what we did he can expect many more years of life, and a good life at that, not like the one he had on the street.”
    “That’s wonderful news. Glad our little kitty amputee is doing well and getting the love he needs.” Sigrid was really quite happy about what Sandro had told her, but she didn’t want to let her guard down. “And if that’s what you’ve come to tell me, thank you. I’ve got to get back to hanging up Babbo Natale .”
    “That’s not all I’ve come to tell you. It turns out that when you jumped the fence around La Capanna ’s patio that night you did something to the alarm system. Because of you, we