Page 16 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

My bedroom looks like a clothing bomb exploded inside it.

Dresses, blouses, skirts, and jeans cover every surface, including my bed, the floor, and even the reading chair I bought specifically to prevent myself from piling clothes on it.

So much for that plan. This is the final attempt to find something after I’ve finally sort of tamed my hair with Penelope’s help and a literal ton (probably) of hair spray.

Everything is ready, except I’ll be opening the door naked if I don’t find something to wear, and it’s probably too soon for that strategy.

“What about this one?” I hold up a flowy blue dress with a cinched waist, the fifth outfit I’ve considered in the past twenty minutes.

Penelope sprawls across my bed, her purple-streaked hair cascading over my discarded sweater. She examines the dress with critical eyes while absently twirling one of her crochet hooks between her fingers.

“Too fancy for a first date,” she says. “Unless you’re planning to meet his entire pack afterward.”

I groan and toss the dress onto the growing pile. “This is ridiculous. I’ve never stressed this much over what to wear.”

“That’s because this isn’t just any date,” she says with infuriating calm. “This is the guy you’ve been secretly mooning over while pretending to find him matches. The guy who straight-up told you yesterday that he’s terminating his contract because he wants you.”

“When you put it that way...” I bite my lip, heat rushing to my cheeks at the memory of Michael kneeling beside me in the filing room, his hand over mine, and those storm-gray eyes intense as he admitted he’d rather be with me than continue pretending.

“The green sweater,” she says, sitting up. “The soft one that brings out your eyes. With your dark jeans. Comfortable but cute. Sexy without trying too hard.”

I dig through the pile and unearth the emerald sweater. It’s soft, and it does make my eyes look more amber than brown. “This could work.”

“Trust me. I dated a fashion designer once. Granted, she designed clothes for hamster shifters, but style is style.”

I laugh despite my nerves and slip into the bathroom to change as she leaves my bedroom.

The sweater hugs my curves without squeezing them, and the jeans are my most flattering pair.

I attempt to tame my hair for the fifteenth time, but the waves refuse to cooperate.

I finally surrender, letting it fall naturally around my shoulders.

When I finish, I step into the hallway and freeze at hearing muffled voices followed by Penelope’s distinctive laugh.

Michael is early, and… What is she telling him?

I rush down the hallway, nearly colliding with a cactus-shaped throw pillow Penelope has crocheted and inexplicably left on the floor, exchanging a few threatening words with my roommate as I get closer to the living room and shivering pleasantly when Michael laughs.

I freeze in the doorway to our living room. Michael stands just inside the entrance, and my carefully rehearsed greeting evaporates from my brain.

He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him perfectly and a charcoal Henley shirt that clings to his shoulders in ways his suits never do.

He looks relaxed, approachable, and devastatingly handsome.

This is Michael stripped of his corporate armor—the wolf beneath the suit—and my mouth goes dry at the sight.

“Hi,” I manage, sounding embarrassingly breathless.

“Hi.” His gaze travels from my boots to my face, lingering for a moment on the sweater. “You look beautiful.”

He offers a small bouquet of wildflowers, and the thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my chest ache.

The flowers are the same colors as the forest where I used to run as a cub.

Deep purples, soft blues, and golden yellows.

“Thank you,” I say, taking them. Our fingers brush, and that simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm. “They’re perfect.”

Penelope makes an exaggerated gagging sound. “I’ll just leave you two alone before the pheromones suffocate me.” She slides past Michael toward her room, mouthing “text me details” behind his back before disappearing down the hall.

“Sorry about her,” I say, grabbing my purse and coat. “She has no filter.”

Michael smiles, and the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes make my stomach flip. “I like her. She threatened to use her MMA skills on me if I hurt you and then immediately offered me a carrot cake cookie she baked this morning.”

“That tracks.” I laugh, some of my nervousness melting away. “So, where are we going?”

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “It’s a surprise, but I promise it’s somewhere special.”

In his car, a sensible but luxury sedan, Michael drives us downtown. The city lights shimmer against a darkening sky, and I steal glances at him.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he says, glancing at me. “I made so many calculation errors at work yesterday that my supervisor threatened to revoke my calculator privileges.”

I laugh. “I accidentally filed all the bear shifters under B instead of by species. Red found a grizzly profile mixed in with beavers and nearly had a stroke.”

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to a sleek high-rise with a discreet sign reading “The Moonlit Garden.” A valet takes Michael’s car keys, and he guides me through glass doors into an elevator with walls that shimmer like mother-of-pearl.

“Top floor,” he says, pressing the button marked with a crescent moon. “It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets.”

The elevator opens directly into a rooftop restaurant unlike any I’ve seen before.

The ceiling is entirely glass, revealing the night sky above.

Lush plants create natural partitions between tables, and subtle lighting glows from recessed fixtures.

What catches my attention immediately are the small globes of light at each table that pulse with gentle color.

A hostess greets us. “Welcome to The Moonlit Garden.” Her gaze flickers with a distinctly feline gleam as she smiles. “Your table is ready, Mr. Thornton.”

She leads us through the restaurant to a secluded alcove partly enclosed by trailing wisteria. The view of the city skyline is breathtaking, but what makes me pause is the small sign on our table: “Shifter-friendly section. Privacy and discretion guaranteed.”

“What is this place?” I whisper as we sit.

Michael’s expression is pleased but almost shy.

“It’s run by a jaguar shifter family. They created it as a safe space where we can be ourselves.

The private alcoves are soundproofed and shielded from human view.

” He gestures to the glowing orb at our table.

“And that light responds to pheromones. They say it helps compatible shifters recognize each other.”

I glance at our light, which pulses a vivid pink. Heat rises to my cheeks. “That’s quite a feature.”

Michael follows my gaze to the light, and a flush creeps up his neck. “I, uh, requested this table specifically. The owner says it has the best view.”

Our server appears with water and menus, saving us from the moment.

He’s clearly a shifter, too—I catch the faint scent of hawk—and he explains the evening’s specials with practiced elegance.

“The chef recommends the venison for our wolf guests,” he says with a knowing smile.

“Though the cedar-plank salmon is equally excellent.”

After he leaves, I lean forward. “You’ve been here before?”

Michael nods. “A few times for business dinners but never on a date.”

“I’m honored to be your first, then,” I say and then blush at the unintended double meaning.

The light pulses a deeper shade of pink. Michael’s gaze holds mine as something electric passes between us.

Over dinner—we both choose the venison, cooked rare—conversation flows as easily as the wine Michael selects.

We talk about everything—books we love, places we want to travel, and childhood memories.

He tells me about the first time he shifted, alone in the woods at twelve, terrified but exhilarated.

I share stories about growing up as the odd wolf out, always preferring books to hunting.

“That’s why none of my relationships worked,” he confesses as we linger over dessert, a decadent chocolate creation the chef insisted we try. “I was always trying to be someone else. Either more wolf for the wolves or more human for everyone else.”

“I understand that completely.” I trace patterns in the condensation on my water glass. “It’s exhausting pretending to be what everyone expects.”

“With you...” He pauses, his eyes intense. “With you, I don’t feel like I’m pretending.”

The light between us pulses so brightly it’s almost blinding.

“I feel the same way,” I say softly.

The first crack of thunder startles us both. Outside the glass ceiling, clouds have gathered, obscuring the stars. Lightning flashes, and fat raindrops begin to splatter against the glass.

“I didn’t check the weather forecast,” he says, looking concerned.

Our server appears, apologetic. “The storm came in faster than expected. The meteorologists missed it completely.”

As if punctuating his words, a particularly violent thunderclap shakes the building, and half the lights in the restaurant flicker.

“Perhaps dessert to go?” Michael suggests.

We barely make it to the elevator when the power fails completely, and emergency lights kick on. “Perfect timing.” I laugh as we descend to the ground floor once the elevator starts moving again, probably fueled by auxiliary power.

When the doors open, rain is sheeting down outside the glass entrance. The valet, looking drenched and miserable, hurries over. “I’m so sorry, sir. There’s flooding on the access road. It might be a while before I can retrieve your car.”

Michael turns to me, his face illuminated by lightning. “Looks like we’re stuck.”

Another clap of thunder, and the emergency lights flicker ominously.