Page 15 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

“A real date,” I confirm, resisting the urge to touch her. Not yet. Not here. “I should probably go before I say or do something that would make Red add heart-shaped stickers to that frame.”

Finley’s blush deepens, and I file away that reaction for future reference. “Probably a good idea.”

As I turn to leave, she catches my arm. “Michael?”

I look back, raising an eyebrow in question.

“I’m glad you terminated your contract.” Her smile is genuine in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Best financial decision I’ve ever made,” I say, earning another laugh that follows me out of the agency and into the evening air.

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of meticulous planning.

I make reservations at three different restaurants, unable to decide which would be perfect.

I settle on The Moonlit Garden, a rooftop restaurant specifically designed for shifters with private booths and special lighting that accommodates night vision.

Then I cancel and reserve at The Silver Spoon instead but then cancel again and go back to my first choice.

The ma?tre d’ threatens to block my number if I change my mind one more time.

I change clothes seven times, discarding outfits that suddenly seem too formal, too casual, too “I’m trying way too hard” or “I’m not trying hard enough.” I even consider wearing a tie with tiny wolves on it that Aunt Eleanor gave me as a joke last Christmas before sanity prevails.

I settle on dark jeans and a charcoal button-down that Eleanor once said “brings out the storm in my eyes,” whatever that means.

I spend an inordinate amount of time on my hair, trying to tame the one stubborn wave that never cooperates.

By the sixth attempt, I give up and accept some battles can’t be won.

The clock ticks forward with agonizing slowness, each minute stretching like an hour.

I reorganize my sock drawer by color gradient, alphabetize my bookshelf, and then switch to organizing by genre, author, and publication date before returning to alphabetical.

I consider calling Aunt Eleanor for moral support but decide against it when I remember her tendency to offer dating advice from werewolf romance novels.

By six-thirty, I can’t stand the waiting any longer and head to Finley’s apartment, knowing I’ll be early but past caring.

I stop to select flowers and then put them back before deciding to buy them for sure.

Traditional? Too cliché? The florist regards me with a mixture of pity and amusement as I debate the merits of roses versus wildflowers versus succulents.

I finally settle on a small bouquet of wildflowers that remind me of the colors in Finley’s eyes.

Outside her building, I pause. This is it, the moment where everything changes. I run up the stairs and knock on Finley’s door, my heart pounding. I hear shuffling inside and a muffled curse before the door swings open to reveal...not Finley.

“If it isn’t Mr. Finance Wolf himself.” The woman, who must be Finley’s roommate, Penelope, stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, examining me with a mixture of amusement and assessment.

She’s wearing what appears to be a crocheted cactus as a hat, which somehow fails to make her look any less intimidating. “You’re early.”

“I know. Sorry.” I shift my weight, feeling like a teenager picking up a prom date. “Is Finley...”

“Fighting with her hair. It’s winning.” Penelope steps aside to let me in. “She’ll be out in a minute. In the meantime, let’s have a chat, shall we?”

The apartment is cozy with mismatched furniture that somehow works together.

Books are stacked on every available surface, and a half-finished crochet project looks like either a very aggressive tumbleweed or a sea urchin on steroids.

The coffee table is covered with failed attempts at hair styling.

Several bobby pins, a curling iron still plugged in, and what appears to be an entire container of anti-frizz serum tipped on its side.

Penelope gestures to the couch, and I sit, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. The flowers feel suddenly inadequate in my hand.

She perches on the arm of a chair, the cactus hat wobbling precariously. “You’re taking my roommate on a date.”

“That’s the plan.”

“A real date, not a ‘practice’ date, which was the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard, by the way.” She makes air quotes around “practice.”

“A real date,” I confirm, meeting her gaze steadily.

“Good.” She nods firmly. “Because if this is some kind of weird wolf status experiment or you’re just bored and looking for a different kind of challenge, I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your natural life looking over your shoulder for an angry rabbit with MMA training.

My right hook has been featured in Shifter Sports Illustrated . ”

I blink, surprised by the fierce protectiveness in her tone. “I assure you, my intentions are genuine. I like Finley. A lot.”

“Hmm.” She studies me for a moment longer and then breaks into a sudden grin.

“I know. I just wanted to see you squirm a little. She hasn’t stopped talking about you for days.

It’s been Michael this and Michael that until I threatened to stuff her in a shipping crate and mail her to Abu Dhabi.

Last night, she tried on fourteen outfits while asking me if each one said ‘professional but interested’ or ‘interested but professional.’ As if there’s a difference. ”

Relief floods through me, followed quickly by warmth at the thought of Finley talking about me. “She has?”

“It’s been excruciating.” She rolls her eyes dramatically, but her tone is affectionate. “You should have seen her attempt to curl her hair earlier. I’ve fought opponents in the ring who looked less battle-worn.”

I smile, imagining Finley wrestling with a curling iron. “I like her hair just the way it is.”

“You’re about to see the results of two hours of styling, three YouTube tutorials, and enough hairspray to be considered an environmental hazard.

” Penelope hops off the chair arm, cactus hat miraculously staying in place.

“Just a heads-up. If you mention the word ‘frizz’ at any point tonight, I will personally ensure they never find your body.”

Before I can respond, I hear a door open down the hallway. Soft footsteps approach, and her expression shifts to something I can’t quite read. “Showtime,” she whispers and then raises her voice. “Finley, your date is here, looking all fancy and financially stable.”

I stand, smoothing my shirt one last time, my heart racing. The bouquet feels heavy in my hands, and my palms are suddenly clammy. I hear Finley’s voice from around the corner, still out of sight.

“Penelope! I told you to let me know when he arrived, not announce it like a carnival barker.”

She winks at me conspiratorially. “Just making sure he appreciates all the effort you’ve put into looking effortlessly beautiful.”

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” she says sharply, still hidden from view. “With your own crochet needles.”

“Hooks, dear,” says the rabbit shifter with a marked lack of fear. “Needles are for knitting.”

I stifle a laugh, tension melting slightly at their banter.

Penelope makes a grand gesture toward the hallway, like a game show host revealing a prize. “May I present the new and improved, freshly styled, moderately less frazzled version of Finley Morgan, wolf extraordinaire and vanquisher of decorative plants.”

I hear a groan of embarrassment, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. This is it, and I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.