Page 14 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Michael

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, methodically smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my shirt for the seventeenth time this hour.

My apartment is immaculate, as always, but somehow I’ve found the need to dust the same bookshelf three times and alphabetize my spice rack, which contains exactly four spices, one of which might be older than some small nations.

I’m fairly certain the oregano has fossilized.

Nervous energy radiates through me like electricity, making my fingers tap an erratic rhythm against the porcelain sink.

Tomorrow is the “practice date” with Finley, and the rational part of my brain—the part that earned a master’s in financial economics and can calculate risk assessment formulas in my sleep—knows this is crossing a line.

The wolf part of my brain that recognized her scent before I even saw her face that first day doesn’t give a damn about professional boundaries.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Aunt Eleanor: Have you told her yet?

followed by three moon emojis and what appears to be a wolf wearing sunglasses.

She’s gotten alarmingly proficient with emojis lately, a skill she claims she’s developing “to better communicate with the youth of today.” I’m thirty-two, hardly a teenager, but I appreciate her effort.

I text back: Working on it. ‘Practice date’ tomorrow.

Her response is immediate: Practice date = real date with plausible deniability. Smart wolf.

I smile despite myself. At least someone in my family supports this unconventional path.

My father would rather see me mate with a traditional wolf who spends her weekends hunting elk and memorizing pack hierarchies than someone I actually connect with.

Last time we spoke, he sent me a profile of a “suitable” wolf shifter who apparently can bring down a moose solo and leads pack runs every full moon.

Her hobbies included “asserting dominance” and “territory marking.” Be still, my beating heart.

Speaking of work, I need to focus. I force myself to open my laptop, diving into spreadsheets and market projections that usually absorb my complete attention.

Today, the numbers blur into meaningless patterns as my mind drifts to amber eyes and a laugh that makes my chest feel too small for my lungs.

“Thornton?” Carl’s voice cuts through my daydream, and I realize he’s been trying to get my attention. “The Peterson account? Today would be nice.”

“Sorry, just finishing the quarterly projections.” I pull up the relevant file, ignoring the knowing smirks from colleagues who seem to have noticed my distraction.

Carl hovers by my desk, peering at my screen with narrowed eyes. “You’ve been off your game all week. Everything all right?”

“Just fine,” I say smoothly, though my half-shifted ears are trying to poke through my carefully groomed hair—a dead giveaway of wolf anxiety that I ruthlessly suppress. “Minor calculation adjustments.”

“Good.” He nods briskly. “The Westin presentation is next week, and we need your numbers bulletproof.”

“They will be.”

The morning crawls by with agonizing slowness.

During lunch, I’m subjected to another wolf “joke” from Davis in accounting.

Something about full moons and stock market howling that wasn’t funny the first seventeen times he told it.

I manage a tight smile, though what I really want to do is show him exactly what these wolf teeth can do to his turkey sandwich.

“You get it, right, Thornton? Because wolves howl? At the moon?” Davis nudges me, clearly proud of his comedic genius. “And then the stocks tank because all the wolf traders are too busy howling to watch the market. Classic!”

“Revolutionary material,” I respond dryly. “Have you considered a career in stand-up?”

“Just some inter-species humor.” He shrugs, oblivious to my sarcasm. “Lighten up, Thornton. You’re always so serious. Must be a wolf thing. Right?”

“Hilarious. If you’ll excuse me, I have some raw meat to consume and innocent villagers to terrorize. Busy schedule.” I walk away before I say something truly regrettable, leaving Davis with his mouth hanging open like a particularly dim-witted trout.

By four o’clock, I’ve made exactly seventeen mistakes in calculations that I could normally do in my sleep.

The latest error was so egregious—a decimal point three places off—that I actually gasped out loud, causing my neighboring analyst to jump in alarm.

This is getting ridiculous. I can’t concentrate, I can’t focus, and I certainly can’t be trusted with numbers that might impact actual human investments.

I shut down my computer, straighten my tie, and inform my team that I’m taking the rest of the day for “personal business.”

The knowing looks they exchange tell me I’m not fooling anyone, but I’m past caring. I need to see Finley. I need to make this “practice date” real. Most importantly, I need to stop pretending I’m still looking for a match when I’ve already found her.

The bell above the door jingles cheerfully as I enter the agency.

Red glances up from the reception desk, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

She’s wearing what appears to be a dress made entirely of red silk scarves strategically knotted together with matching red stilettos that add a good six inches to her height.

“If it isn’t our favorite financially savvy wolf.” She taps a stack of papers against the desk to align them. “I don’t believe you had an appointment today.”

“I don’t.” I straighten my tie unnecessarily. “I wanted to discuss something. About my contract.”

“Of course you did.” Red’s eyes twinkle with poorly concealed amusement.

“Finley’s in the back filing room. I’ll just go check on that.

..thing I need to check on...somewhere else.

” She winks so overtly it’s almost a facial spasm before scurrying off with surprising speed for someone in six-inch heels, humming what sounds suspiciously like “Here Comes the Bride.”

I make my way through the familiar hallway.

The filing room door is ajar, and I see Finley inside, reaching for a box on a high shelf.

She’s on tiptoes, fingers barely grazing the cardboard, and a soft growl of frustration escapes her throat.

It’s the most adorable sound I’ve ever heard, and it takes considerable effort not to help her reach it.

I clear my throat, and she whirls around, nearly toppling a stack of folders. One escapes, sending papers cascading to the floor in what appears to be slow motion.

“Michael?” Her cheeks flush immediately, and she drops to her knees, frantically gathering the scattered papers. “I didn’t… You’re not scheduled for… Is everything okay? Please ignore this disaster. Oh, moon, these were alphabetized. Were being the operative word.”

I kneel beside her, helping collect the fallen documents. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk about something.”

“Oh?” She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

“Is it about the hippo shifter profile? Because I can absolutely find someone less conspiracy-minded. I’ve already eliminated all shifters who believe the moon landing was faked or that lizard people control the government, though that does narrow the pool significantly. ”

Her rambling is endearing, and I have to fight the urge to smile as her words tumble over each other.

“My contract with the agency.” I keep my voice steady despite the thunder of my pulse. “I want to terminate it.”

Her face falls, and she drops the papers she’s been clutching. “Oh. You’re giving up? After the hippo profile, I understand completely. That was entirely my fault, and I…”

“No.” I place my hand over hers, stopping the nervous shuffling of papers. “I’m not giving up. I’m acknowledging that continuing to pretend I’m looking for a match when I’ve already found someone I want to be with doesn’t feel honest.”

She freezes, eyes widening. “You’ve found someone?”

I wait, one heartbeat, two, hoping she’ll make the connection. When she doesn’t, I take a deep breath. “Finley, the only times I’ve felt genuinely happy in months have been during our consultation sessions. Not the dates, not the matches. Just talking with you.”

Her lips part in surprise, and I force myself to keep going before I lose my nerve. “Tomorrow night, this practice date ... I don’t want it to be practice. I don’t want it to be research. I want it to be real.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words. I’ve miscalculated. I’ve crossed a line. I’ve ruined everything. My mind races through damage control scenarios when she finally speaks.

“Red’s going to be insufferably smug about this.” A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “She’s already cleared a spot on the wall. I caught her measuring frames yesterday.”

My breath catches. “Is that a yes?”

“To what? You haven’t actually asked me anything.” Her smile widens, challenging me.

I gather every ounce of courage I possess. “Finley, would you like to go on an actual date with me tomorrow night? No research, no practice, just...us?”

“I’d like that.” Her voice is soft, but her eyes are bright with something that makes my heart stutter. “I’d like that very much.”

The tension in my shoulders releases so suddenly I nearly sway. Before I can respond, Red pokes her head into the doorway.

“Did he finally ask you? The suspense is killing me, and these walls are very thin.” She holds up a measuring tape and a small picture frame. “I’ve already selected the matting. I was thinking forest green with little wolf paw prints. Thoughts?”

Finley’s laugh fills the small space, and I join her. Red beams at us both and then vanishes as quickly as she appeared, leaving us alone again.

“So…” Finley takes a step closer. “Tomorrow night at seven o’clock—and it’s a real date.”