Page 1 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

I jolt awake to the shrill ringtone of my phone, my face pressed against a warm pillow that smells vaguely of cocoa butter.

My first instinct is to fling the phone across the room so I can reclaim the bliss of sleep.

But I’m already halfway conscious, and curiosity gets the better of me.

The screen flashes “Mom,” so I clear my throat, force a pleasant tone, and answer.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Her cheerful greeting slides into my ear with the precision of a well-aimed arrow. “I found the perfect date for you. He’s the son of a neighboring pack’s alpha, and you two will get along famously.”

I lurch upright. “Mom, I can’t. Today’s not a good day.” My mouth twists, and my pulse already flutters with dread.

She sounds so hopeful. “This is our twelfth match. He’s tall, comes from a respected family, and his mother says he has an excellent sense of humor.”

“If his mother says it, then it must be true,” I mutter to myself while kicking off the covers and shuffling into the kitchen, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear.

My apartment is still unfamiliar with boxes piled in corners and a leaning stack of cookbooks threatening to topple.

“I appreciate your efforts, but I’m not sure I can do it tonight.

” The oven clock blinks, showing I overslept by half an hour.

Her voice dips into that coaxing tone that always tangles me in guilt. “He’s only in town for two days, and I promised his mother you’d at least meet him for coffee.”

My toes curl against the chilly floor while I peer at the spartan interior. “Coffee is complicated. My day’s packed.”

She releases a dramatic sigh. “You never have time. You know we only want your happiness. Moving to the city doesn’t change the fact that you need a mate, Finley.”

That last statement sets me on edge, but I bite back the urge to snap at her. “My interview is in a couple of hours. Please understand.”

There’s silence on her end followed by a thoughtful hum. “I told Harold you’d say that. We’re just concerned. This is your future.”

I flip the knob on the gas range while rummaging for a skillet. “I know. It’s also my choice. I promise I’ll call back, but let me figure it out. Okay?”

Her pause stretches. “You do that, but keep in mind, you only get so many chances before people start whispering that you’re standoffish.”

My hand flexes around the spatula. “Let them whisper. I’ll manage.” I keep my voice calm, the way I used to in the packhouse when they’d corral me into meet-and-greets with some alpha’s nephew.

She exhales. “I just don’t want you lonely. We worry. All right, I’ll let you go, but call me later. All right?”

I murmur a quick farewell and gently set the phone on the counter, my heart pounding.

That’s the twelfth time in three months she’s tried to force another meeting with yet another alpha, just so I can face more stares, the pitying looks, and sly comments about my unusual wolf.

Running from that was the entire reason I moved here.

An oily smell wafts up from the pan. My eyes widen in horror as I hastily shovel half-burned scrambled eggs onto a plate and then realize I have no time to cook something else. My stomach grumbles even as my mouth twists with distaste. These eggs look like charcoal-flaked lumps.

A beep from my phone reminds me of the interview time.

My mind scrambles for details. It’s at a place called Romance Expected Dating Service, run by someone named Regina Carrington, and is hardly the type of position I ever imagined for myself.

I originally had a stable HR job in the country, but that was back when I was still pretending I could settle near my pack without losing my mind.

Smoke coils from the skillet. I lunge for the knob and cringe as the blackened egg bits crust on the surface.

Breakfast success ratio is zero. My frustration lingers, but the sweet smell of coffee beckons.

I grab my favorite mug off the dish rack, the one with chipped letters reading “I HOWL AT MY OWN JOKES.” It’s the only novelty mug I own that still makes me smile.

The first sip has me sighing in relief, but that moment is short-lived. My phone buzzes with a text from Mom: He’s waiting to hear from you.

My grip on the handle shifts at the unwelcome reminder, and coffee sloshes over the side, splattering hot drops across the plain blouse I picked for my interview. Sticky warmth seeps into the cream-colored fabric, and the mug clangs against the counter when I set it down too fast.

That’s not even the worst part. A fat splash lands on the crisp résumé printed specifically for this job interview.

The cheap paper curls into itself where the coffee hits, and I want to scream.

Instead, I fling open a drawer, rummage for a napkin, and dab furiously, which only smears the ink in dark ribbons across the page.

A soft groan escapes me. “Please, not today. Please.” The mess looks irreparable. The black typeface for my name is half-melted, and it’s the only copy I have. My printer is still in a box. The actual device might be in the trunk of my car.

Minutes slip by as I debate ways to salvage the résumé. A hairdryer? A store around the corner with a printer kiosk? That’s precious time I might not have, so I decide to reprint it at a local shipping store on the way. Problem solved. Possibly.

I rinse the mug and then hustle into the bathroom. My reflection grimaces back, hair in a frizzy halo around my head. I spent my last paycheck on salon-grade conditioner, yet my waves have a mind of their own. A tired woman stares at me, and tension tugs between my shoulder blades.

The memory of Mom’s disappointed voice lingers in my ears. “I am not standoffish,” I whisper. “I’m just me.” My lips tremble.

That phone call might have been routine, but every time, it reopens the wound of not fitting in. My wolf side is present yet different, and I’m always measuring up to nothing in the eyes of those who want a proper pack.

I secure my hair in a low bun, rummaging for bobby pins that vanish before reappearing in the strangest places.

One pin is bent, but I wedge it in anyway.

An encouraging pep talk forms in my mind.

You moved here to escape all that. You want a life that’s yours, free from forced matches.

This interview might be weird, but it’s a chance to do something new.

The mirror offers no easy answers. I attempt a smile, and my eyes look a bit more amber when I’m nervous. My wolf peeks through in my reflection. Good to know she’s awake, too.

“You can do this,” I whisper and smooth the front of my blouse, still damp from coffee, but there’s no visible stain. Good enough. My reflection nods with slightly too much enthusiasm, but I go with it.

I scramble to gather my bag, pausing to rescue the battered résumé from the counter.

Coffee stains still cling to the corner, but maybe I can replicate it at the printing store.

Running out the door, I nearly trip over an unopened box labeled “Books.” My foot slides, and I steady myself against the wall with a muttered curse.

One more reason to hurry and finish unpacking.

Stepping onto the city sidewalk is still a novelty.

That blend of exhaust, coffee shops, and too many perfumes all swirling in the air jolts me fully awake.

My senses flare, and I inhale, catching undertones of fresh bread from the bakery across the street.

This is my second week here, and I’m still dazzled by the energy.

I hurry along, weaving between business-suited professionals.

I barely have enough time to stop at the copy center, but I manage to print a fresh résumé after a short battle with the self-serve printer.

The machine gives me attitude in the form of paper jams and cryptic error messages.

My watch informs me I have fifteen minutes to spare.

Anxiety clenches in my belly as I half-jog to the address listed in my phone.

Romance Expected Dating Service occupies the second floor of a narrow building wedged between a nail salon and a ramen shop.

A modest sign in swirling script beckons from the glass door, and I climb the stairs and try to calm the flutter in my chest. Interviews always make me jumpy, and this is the last sort of job I anticipated ever trying to get.

Inside, the waiting room is unexpectedly cozy.

It has red walls with whimsical floral patterns and a small table set with magazines about relationships and shifter culture.

A tall shelf holds Polaroid photos of smiling couples, each framed in cheap but cheerful frames with hearts drawn in marker.

Some photos look like awkward prom pictures, with overly dramatic lighting, matching outfits, and enthusiastic grins.

A bright voice calls from somewhere behind the front desk. “Hello, there. Give me just a second.”

Within moments, a woman emerges, her wide smile lighting up her warm brown eyes.

She’s about my height, with vibrant auburn hair styled in a sleek bob.

Something about the subtle pattern around her eyes is reminiscent of red panda markings, but maybe my imagination is in overdrive.

She wears a bold red caftan that accentuates her curvy frame as well as the color theme of the room.

She gives me a big smile that feels genuine. “You must be Finley Morgan. I’m Regina Carrington. Everyone calls me Red, though.”

That grin is infectious, so I return it. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.”

She gestures for me to follow her down a short hallway.

“No need to be so formal. I’m the one who should be grateful you applied.

I can never keep an assistant for more than a few months.

They discover the clientele is…a tad unusual, and they vanish.

” She winks over her shoulder. “Let’s chat in my office. ”