Page 13 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

I clutch Michael’s file to my chest, pretending to organize as Red watches me from across the office with that knowing smirk of hers.

She’s been eyeing me all morning with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

Ever since the cupid topiary fiasco and our moonlit conversation in the park, I’ve been attempting—and failing—to maintain a veneer of professional detachment.

My fingertips linger too long on his intake forms, I reread his notes when I should be processing new clients, and I’ve memorized his coffee order, for moon’s sake.

“Ready for lunch?” Red appears at my desk, dangling her purse with the casual air of someone who absolutely knows what’s going on.

I snap the folder closed. “Definitely. Starving.” My stomach betrays me with a growl that sounds suspiciously like Michael’s name.

We head to Shifter’s Deli, a hole-in-the-wall spot where the owner—a badger shifter with impeccable taste in sourdough—keeps a private back room for “those with special dietary considerations.” Translation—shifters who might accidentally sprout fur mid-sandwich.

I slide into our usual booth, immediately hiding behind my menu, despite knowing I’ll order the same turkey club I always do.

Red plucks the laminated shield from my hands. “So. Are we going to discuss your obsession with Michael Thornton’s file, or shall I pretend not to notice you daydreaming about him every seventeen minutes?”

I sputter into my water glass. “I don’t—that’s not—seventeen minutes seems weirdly specific.”

“I timed you.” She taps her watch with a glossy red nail. “Your pheromones are making the ficus plant in the corner grow three inches this week alone.”

My cheeks burn hotter than a forest fire. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to everyone with functioning nostrils.” Red’s smile softens as she leans forward. “Which is why I think it’s time I tell you something.”

The waitress, a harried-looking lizard shifter whose tongue occasionally darts out to taste the air, takes our orders, giving me a brief reprieve from Red’s interrogation. Once she leaves, Red folds her napkin into a perfect triangle, smoothing the edges with unusual care.

“I started Romance Expected after seven consecutive dates where I was called adorable like I was a stuffed animal rather than a potential mate.” Her typically chipper voice drops an octave.

“The eighth one actually brought bamboo shoots as a gift and then acted surprised when I didn’t want to eat them raw in the middle of a five-star restaurant. ”

I wince. “That’s awful.”

“It was demoralizing. Traditional shifter circles have these rigid expectations. Wolves mate with wolves, bears with bears, and small, ‘quirky’ species...” She makes air quotes. “We’re novelties, not viable partners. Too tiny, too weird, or not predatory enough.”

“That’s wildly unfair. You’re amazing.”

“I know.” She flashes a brilliant smile.

“Which is exactly why I created this service for shifters who didn’t fit perfect molds, who needed a safe space to find genuine connection without judgment.

For the wolves who prefer stock portfolios to hunting parties, the rabbits who fight in MMA rings, and the red pandas who refuse to be called adorable one more time. ”

My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. “You’ve created something really special.”

“I have.” She nods, accepting this as a simple fact. “Which is why the wall of successful matches is my pride and joy.”

Our food arrives, and I take a bite of my sandwich to hide the sudden wave of guilt. Red notices anyway.

“Speaking of that wall...” She chews thoughtfully. “I was rearranging it this morning. There’s this empty space that appeared out of nowhere. Perfect for an eight-by-ten frame. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

I nearly choke on turkey. “Completely random, I’m sure.”

“Completely.” She winks and then glances around the restaurant before leaning closer.

“Finley, you’re a wonderful matchmaker. You understand the loneliness of not fitting predetermined expectations, but sometimes.

..” She plucks a red panda figurine keychain from her purse, spinning it between her fingers.

“Sometimes, the best match isn’t the one on paper.

Sometimes, it’s the person you keep accidentally selecting terrible matches for because you’re secretly hoping they’ll come back to you. ”

My mouth falls open. “You knew?” I cover my face with my hands. “I’m the worst employee ever.”

“Or the best.” She reaches across the table, gently pulling my hands away. “Because you found your own perfect match while trying to find his. That’s serendipity at its finest.”

“But the professional ethics…”

“Are important, yes.” She nods solemnly. “Which is why you should probably tell him about your feelings before sending him on another date with someone else.”

“I don’t know if I can. What if he doesn’t feel the same?”

“Oh, please.” Red rolls her eyes. “That man looks at you like you invented the moon for wolves to howl at. I’ve been matching shifters for eight years, and I know chemistry when I see it. Trust me on this.”

I pick at my chips, digesting her words along with my lunch. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” She triumphantly pops a pickle in her mouth. “Because he’s scheduled for a consultation at two, and I suddenly remembered an urgent red panda gathering I must attend.”

My head snaps up. “You’re leaving me alone with him? Today? Now?”

“Serendipity waits for no shifter.” She slides a credit card to the edge of the table with a wink as the waitress returns to drop off the bill.

Back at the office, I’m a nervous wreck.

I’ve changed my blouse twice using the emergency outfits I keep in my desk drawer.

I’ve brushed my teeth, applied lip gloss and then wiped it off because it seemed too obvious, and then reapplied it because my lips felt naked.

I’ve organized and reorganized Michael’s file until the edges are soft from handling.

In my scattered state, I create the most ridiculous profile for his next potential match.

Henrietta, a hippo shifter, who collects conspiracy theory memorabilia and believes the stock market is a mind control device invented by alien reptiles.

I snap a photo of her profile with my phone, snickering at my own ridiculousness, and then realize with horror I’ve actually saved it to his file.

Before I can remove it, the bell above the door chimes.

Michael walks in, and my heart performs an Olympic-qualifying gymnastics routine in my chest. He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a light blue button-down that makes his eyes look like summer storm clouds.

His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, which is a nervous habit I’ve cataloged along with all his other endearing quirks.

“Hey.” He smiles, and I swear the temperature in the room rises five degrees.

“Hi,” I squeak and then clear my throat. “I mean, hello.” Professional greeting. “How are you? Weather, right? It exists.”

His eyebrows rise, amusement dancing in his eyes. “It does indeed exist. Very astute observation.”

“I excel at stating the obvious.” I gesture to the consultation room, nearly knocking over my “I HOWL AT MY OWN JOKES” mug that I’ve stopped hiding. “Shall we?”

Inside the room, I feel trapped in the best possible way. The space suddenly seems smaller than before, the air charged with unspoken tension. I fumble with his file, accidentally dropping the profile I created onto the table between us.

Michael picks it up, scanning it quickly. One eyebrow arches higher with each ridiculous detail he reads. “Henrietta sounds...fascinating.”

“She’s very passionate about her interests,” I manage, mortification washing over me.

“I can see that.” He flips the page. “‘Believes wolves are government drones designed to spy on innocent hippos.’ That’s a new one.”

“She has unique perspectives.”

“And mud bathing. My favorite pastime.” His lips twitch. “Strange how you keep finding these wildly incompatible matches for me. Almost as if...” He trails off, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

“As if what?” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

“As if you don’t actually want these dates to work out.”

The air between us crackles with possibility. I swallow hard. “That would be highly unprofessional of me.”

“Extremely.” He leans forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne mingled with his natural wolf scent. “Almost as unprofessional as how much I look forward to these consultations more than the actual dates.”

My pulse sprints. “That’s not good feedback for our service.”

“It’s excellent feedback for my personal happiness, though.” His smile is softer now, genuine in a way that makes my chest ache.

I gather every ounce of courage in my trembling body. “Maybe what you need is...a practice date.”

He tilts his head. “A practice date?”

“Yes.” I nod with far more confidence than I feel. “To analyze what might be going wrong in your approach. I could observe and provide professional feedback. Very clinical. Completely objective.”

“Completely,” he agrees, though his eyes tell a different story.

“It would be purely for research purposes.”

“Of course.” His smile widens. “For science.”

“Exactly.” I clutch my pen so tightly I fear it might snap. “No personal feelings involved whatsoever.”

“None at all.” He reaches across the table, brushing his fingers lightly against mine. “When would this scientific experiment take place?”

My skin buzzes where he touched me. “This weekend? Saturday night?”

“Perfect.” His voice drops to a low rumble that does alarming things to my insides. “Should I pick you up at seven? For research purposes?”

“Seven is an excellent time. For science.”

We stare at each other, the pretense wearing thinner by the second. His gaze drops to my lips, and I wonder if he’s going to lean forward, if we’re finally going to… Abruptly, Michael stands, straightening his jacket with a regretful smile. “I should go. Saturday at seven?”

I nod, still dazed from our near-moment. “Saturday at seven.”

He pauses at the door, glancing back with an expression that makes my knees weak. “Looking forward to our...research.”

After he leaves, I collapse into my chair, my heart racing and mind whirling with possibilities. Saturday night stretches before me like a promise, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. A practice date. With Michael. There’s nothing romantic about it at all.

I’m the worst liar in the world, but for once, I don’t care.

Red returns hours later, suspiciously devoid of red panda gathering evidence. She takes one look at my face and grins triumphantly. “The wall space will be filled by the end of the month. I’m ordering a custom frame with little wolves carved into the corners.”

“It’s just a practice date,” I protest weakly. “For research.”

“Hmm.” She taps her chin. “And will this research involve that blue dress that makes your eyes pop or the black one that hugs your curves?”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “The blue one.”

“Excellent choice.” She pats my shoulder. “For science, of course.”

“For science,” I echo, unable to contain my smile.

Saturday can’t come soon enough.