Page 11 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

My finger hovers over Michael’s contact, my heart fluttering as I rehearse what to say.

I’m not sure he’ll be willing to try again, but I’ve found someone who might actually be compatible.

Talia is a refined wolf-coyote hybrid. She’s a professional flautist and appreciates culture. She seems perfect for Michael on paper.

I take a deep breath and dial before I lose my nerve.

“Michael Thornton speaking.” His voice sounds tired and strained at the edges.

“Hi, Michael. It’s Finley from Romance Expected. Is this a good time?”

He pauses, and his tone softens. “Finley. Yes, actually. I could use a distraction.”

“Rough day?”

“Rough weekend.” He sighs, the sound crackling through the connection. “I just got back from the pack compound, and a full day of condescending comments about my career, thinly veiled disappointment, and constant reminders that I’m failing my wolf duty by living in the city.”

My chest tightens with sympathy. “I’m sorry. Family gatherings can be brutal.”

“My father spent the entire time parading eligible pack-approved wolves in front of me. One actually asked if I’d considered therapy for my human fixation .” The bitterness in his laugh makes me wince.

“Charming. My mother once smuggled an alpha’s son into my apartment under the pretense of delivering homemade stew.”

His genuine chuckle warms me from within. “What happened?”

“Let’s just say he discovered that not all female wolves submit easily. He left wearing most of the stew.”

Michael laughs fully this time, the sound making my wolf stir with pleasure. “I would have paid to see that.”

A comfortable silence falls between us. I’m reluctant to break it, to shift back into professional territory when this connection feels so natural, but that’s my job. “I’m calling because I may have found a promising match for you.”

“After the last two disasters? You’re optimistic.” His tone is teasing rather than accusatory.

“Fourth time’s the charm, right? Her name is Talia Westlin. She’s a coyote-wolf hybrid, who plays professionally for the symphony. Her instrument is the flute, and according to her profile, she’s cultured, educated, and appreciates fine dining and jazz.”

“Sounds sophisticated,” he says cautiously. “No environmental manifestos or hidden recording devices? I can’t rule out allergies until I meet her.” There’s a hint of embarrassment in his voice when he says that.

“Zero activism or corporate espionage. I promise. Just a wolf with refined tastes who specifically requested someone, and I quote, ‘who understands that civilization and wolf nature aren’t mutually exclusive.’ Maybe take a Zyrtec before you go,” I quip.

“That’s refreshing.” He sounds genuinely intrigued. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Chez Duval, at a corner table near the jazz trio. I booked it for Thursday at seven, but I can reschedule if that doesn’t work.”

“Thursday works.” He pauses. “This one really sounds different from the others.”

“She is.” I try to ignore the twinge in my chest and the irrational desire to find fault with Talia’s perfect-on-paper profile. “I think you might actually enjoy her company.”

“I appreciate you not giving up on me.” His voice drops slightly. “Most matchmakers would have written me off as a lost cause by now.”

“You’re not a lost cause, Michael.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. “You just haven’t found someone who appreciates who you really are.”

Another pause, this one charged with something I can’t quite name. “Thank you, Finley.”

“For what?”

“For seeing me.” The simple honesty in his words steals my breath. “Not many people do.”

I swallow hard, trying to maintain professional boundaries that feel increasingly flimsy. “Just doing my job.”

“If you say so.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll let you know how it goes with Talia.”

“Please do. And, Michael?”

“Yes?”

“If your father gives you grief again, remember, being different doesn’t mean being wrong. Some wolves aren’t meant to run with the pack.”

“Some wisdom from your own experience?” he asks gently.

“Let’s just say, I understand what it’s like to be the wolf who doesn’t fit the mold.”

After we hang up, I sit staring at the phone, trying to ignore the quiet voice inside me hoping that somehow, against all professional ethics, this date will fail, too.

Talia answers my email to confirm her interest a few minutes later, and I make the reservations for Chez Duval at seven p.m. on Thursday, specifying a corner table near the jazz trio, tucked away enough for privacy but with a clear view of the stage.

I chose it specifically knowing how Michael appreciates both fine dining and live music, which are details I’ve obsessively memorized from his profile.

Red watches me fidget with the confirmation email, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“This’ll do it. Right?” I tap my pen against the desk, pretending this is just routine matchmaking and not a slow-motion panic attack.

“Indeed.” Her eyebrows lift suggestively. “Talia certainly has the cultural interests to match our Michael. Though perhaps too much...personality?”

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “He needs someone who appreciates refinement. She’s perfect on paper.”

“Many disasters look perfect on paper.” Red winks, sashaying to her office before I can respond.

Thursday comes somehow with agonizing slowness and suddenly, far too quickly.

By six, my nerves have reached a fever pitch.

I should go home. I should trust my matchmaking skills.

I should definitely not drive to Chez Duval and lurk in the shadows to see if this date turns out better than the sneezing disaster, the humiliation at the organic café, or the corporate espionage fiasco.

Yet…

At 6:45, I find myself adjusting a pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses in my car mirror.

I’ve added a scarf around my hair for extra anonymity, making me look like a 1960s movie star trying to avoid paparazzi or possibly an escapee from a mental institution.

Either way, it’s not my most professional moment.

“Just a quick peek,” I tell my reflection sternly. “Quality control. Client satisfaction. Totally normal.”

I’m the worst liar in the world.

The restaurant glows under tasteful golden lighting. Crystal chandeliers hover over white-clothed tables, and the soft strains of jazz filter from a trio on a small stage. It’s elegant without being intimidating and exactly the atmosphere I hoped Michael would appreciate.

I slip past the hostess during a moment of distraction, half-hiding my face behind a menu snagged from a stand by the door.

Scanning the room, I spot them immediately.

Michael looks devastating in a charcoal suit, his profile sharp against the candlelight.

Talia sits opposite him, svelte in a midnight-blue dress, leaning forward with practiced interest.

They look good together. A perfect match, aesthetically. My stomach twists uncomfortably.

I sidle toward a large decorative planter shaped vaguely like a cherub with a bow. It’s tacky but offers excellent cover. Crouching behind it, I adjust my position to keep them in view through the artificial foliage. This is fine. This is normal. This is what dedicated matchmakers do.

I’m definitely getting fired if anyone catches me.

They appear to be conversing smoothly, Talia’s animated gestures contrasting with Michael’s more reserved demeanor. She laughs at something he says, tossing her hair in a practiced motion. He smiles politely but doesn’t lean in closer.

Not a disaster but not fireworks, either. I squint through the leaves, trying to assess their chemistry.

“Finley?”

I freeze at the sound of my name, loud enough to make nearby diners turn.

“Fancy seeing you here. On the floor. Behind a plant. Inside a fancy restaurant.”

I whip around to find Penelope standing there, her arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who’s just discovered Christmas came early. My face burns as I frantically gesture for her to be quiet, which has roughly the same effect as asking water not to be wet.

“What a surprise running into you!” She practically shouts it.

I scramble to stand, but my scarf catches on a branch of the artificial plant. I tug it free, causing the entire massive planter to wobble dangerously. I freeze, watching in horror as it teeters, tilts… And crashes to the floor with a deafening thud.

The entire restaurant falls silent. The jazz trio stops mid-note as dozens of heads swivel toward the commotion, including—oh, moon, help me—Michael and Talia.

I stand there, covered in fake leaves and potting soil, one arm still tangled in my scarf, with my sunglasses hanging askew from one ear.

A plastic cherub’s arrow has somehow become lodged in my sweater, pointing accusingly at my chest.

“I-I was just…” I stammer, brushing dirt from my clothes. “Random quality check. Very standard procedure at Romance Expected.”

The hostess rushes over, horror painting her features. Talia rises from her seat, recognition dawning on her face as she looks from me to Michael.

“You’re kidding,” she says loudly enough for half the restaurant to hear. “Our matchmaker is spying on us?”

Michael stands, too, his expression unreadable. I want to dissolve into the potting soil at my feet.

“This is beyond unprofessional.” Talia’s voice carries across the hushed restaurant.

She turns to Michael, her eyes narrowing.

“And you! You’re just standing there like a statue instead of reacting or doing something.

Is this why you can’t find a mate? No wonder your father says you lack proper wolf instincts. ”

My embarrassment vanishes, replaced by a surge of protective fury. “That’s enough.”

Talia blinks, clearly not expecting resistance. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I draw myself up to my full height, ignoring the twig still stuck in my hair. “Michael deserves respect, not public humiliation, and your attitude about what makes a proper wolf is exactly the kind of narrow-minded garbage we reject at Romance Expected.”

The restaurant is so quiet, one could hear a pin drop. Waiters freeze mid-step, diners gape, and the jazz pianist accidentally hits a discordant note.

Talia’s eyes widen and then narrow to slits. “Who do you think…”

“Your membership is terminated, effective immediately.” The words fly out before I can stop them. “We don’t tolerate clients who belittle others, especially over outdated stereotypes about what wolves should be.”

The corner of Michael’s mouth twitches upward, so briefly, I might have imagined it.

Talia sputters, flushing with anger. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.” My heart hammers against my ribs, but I stand firm. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. Or don’t.”

Talia grabs her purse, knocking into a waiter who scrambles to save his tray of cocktails. With a final withering glare at both Michael and me, she storms out, leaving a wake of stunned silence.

I turn to Michael, mortification flooding back now that my righteous anger is subsiding. “I’m sorry for disrupting your evening.”

He studies me for a long moment, those storm-gray eyes unreadable. Then, with deliberate calm, he places some bills on the table and nods politely to the manager. Without a word, he walks past me and out the door.

My heart sinks to my toes. I’ve ruined everything. His date, my professional credibility, and probably my job. I trudge outside, avoiding the stares of the other diners and the manager who’s frantically directing staff to clean up the toppled planter.

Outside, Penelope waits on the sidewalk, looking both amused and concerned. “That was quite a show.”

“I’m so fired.” I slump against the brick wall.

“Maybe.” She plucks a fake leaf from my shoulder. “But you were magnificent. The way you stood up for him. That was something else.”

“He walked out without a word. He probably never wants to see me again.”

“Or maybe he needed to process.” She shrugs. “Call Red. Come clean.”

With trembling fingers, I dial my boss, expecting the worst. To my shock, Red laughs when I explain what happened.

“Oh, honey, I’ve been looking for an excuse to drop Talia for weeks. She’s on probation for harassing three other clients. The woman’s a menace with Louboutins.” Red’s voice radiates amusement. “As for Michael... Sometimes, the heart knows what it wants before the head catches up.”

I barely have time to absorb her words when my phone buzzes with a text from Michael: Didn’t expect to see you behind a potted cupid. Cupid strikes in mysterious ways. Right? Meet me at Waterfront Park?

My heart somersaults. He’s not angry. He wants to see me. “I’ve got to go,” I tell Red, not bothering to hide my smile.

“Follow your instincts,” she says cryptically before hanging up.

I glance at Penelope, who gives me a knowing smirk. “Try not to knock over any more decorative plants,” she says and then heads off toward her car.

The night air feels electric as I text Michael back.

Somehow, through the disaster of toppled cupids, exposed disguises, and terminated clients, I feel a surprising sense of rightness.

Whatever happens next, at least I stood up for what matters, and maybe cupid’s arrow struck true after all, even if it did come with a face full of potting soil.