Page 26 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)
Michael
“Are you sure about this?” I adjust my bow tie for the twelfth time, staring at my reflection in the mirror with growing skepticism. “We could claim food poisoning? Sudden onset wolf flu? Spontaneous combustion?”
Red’s annual shifter gala looms, and my stomach churns at the thought of being the evening’s featured “success story.” Two weeks have passed since the pack gathering disaster, and I’ve successfully avoided all calls from my father while throwing myself into work and my relationship with Finley.
Now, Red wants to parade us in front of the entire local clientele as her crowning matchmaking achievement.
“We already promised Red,” she calls from the bathroom, where she’s been sequestered with Penelope for over an hour. “Besides, it’s good publicity for the agency.”
“I’m not concerned about the agency’s publicity,” I mutter, tugging at my collar. “I’m concerned about my father hearing about this and showing up to deliver another lecture on appropriate wolf mating practices.”
Penelope emerges from the bathroom, looking uncharacteristically disheveled despite her stylish jumpsuit. She wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Trust me, after what we just went through in there, you’re attending this gala if I have to drag you there myself.”
“What, exactly, is happening in my bathroom?” I peer past her with growing alarm.
“Shapewear emergency,” she says grimly, “involving olive oil, brute force, and tactical MMA maneuvers I normally reserve for championship bouts.” Before I can process this disturbing information, she grabs my arm, pulling me away from the door.
“No peeking. The grand reveal requires proper staging.”
I check my watch, anxiety mounting. “We’re going to be late.”
“Worth it,” she assures me with a knowing smirk. “Totally worth it.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pacing the living room when I hear the bathroom door open. I turn, and every coherent thought evaporates from my brain.
Finley stands in the doorway in a vibrant red dress that seems to glow against her skin.
Unlike her usual professional attire that downplays her curves, this dress celebrates them by hugging her waist and flowing over her hips.
The neckline showcases the elegant line of her collarbone and a hint of generous cleavage.
Her hair falls in un-frizzed waves around her shoulders, and her eyes seem more amber than brown, enhanced by whatever makeup magic Penelope has worked.
She looks powerful, confident, and breathtaking. I’m dimly aware that I’m staring open-mouthed, but I can’t seem to form words.
“See?” Penelope nudges Finley. “I told you his brain would short-circuit.”
Finley blushes, fidgeting with the dress. “Is it too much? I almost went with the black one instead, but Penelope insisted. “
“You’re perfect,” I finally manage, crossing the room to take her hands. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Told you the industrial-strength shapewear was worth it,” Penelope stage-whispers. “Even if I did have to literally wrestle her into it.”
Finley’s blush deepens. “We don’t need to discuss the shapewear situation, and on that disturbing note…” Finley grabs her wrap and purse. “We should go.”
“Pictures first.” Penelope produces a camera from nowhere, forcing us into various poses while providing unhelpful directions like “look less terrified, Michael” and “try to appear like you haven’t just witnessed a murder, Finley.”
Finally escaping Penelope’s impromptu photoshoot, we make our way to the waiting car. I help Finley into the backseat, still somewhat dazed.
“You really do look beautiful,” I tell her once we’re settled. “I almost walked into that ficus plant when I saw you.”
She laughs, relaxing slightly. “That’s precisely the reaction I was hoping for. Ficus-related injuries.”
The drive to the venue passes too quickly while Finley briefs me on what to expect.
Apparently, Red turns these galas into elaborate showcases of her matchmaking prowess with successful couples taking center stage throughout the evening.
As Romance Expected’s newest “star match,” we’ll be expected to share our story during the formal recognition ceremony.
“Just follow my lead.” Finley squeezes my hand. “Remember, most of these shifters are clients or potential clients. They’re on our side.”
Her reassurance calms me until we arrive at the venue, which is an elegantly renovated historical building with elaborate stonework and discreet security measures designed for shifter events. The entrance bustles with activity, couples and groups in formal wear filing through the doors.
“Ready?” she asks, checking my bow tie one last time.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We enter arm in arm, greeted immediately by Red herself, resplendent in a crimson gown.
Her hair is piled atop her head in an elaborate structure, and she looks regal.
“My stars have arrived.” She enfolds us both in a perfume-heavy embrace.
“Everyone is dying to meet my most challenging success story.”
“Challenging?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Darling, you were the Mount Everest of matchmaking.” Red pats my cheek. “A corporate wolf, who allergically sneezes on dates and works in finance? Lesser matchmakers would have retired in defeat.” She turns, waving expansively at the crowded ballroom. “But I knew exactly what you needed.”
“A matchmaker with a gambling problem who needed to meet her quota?” Finley suggests innocently.
Red laughs, swatting her arm. “Cheeky. Now come, circulate. The formal recognition ceremony begins at nine. Until then, enjoy the open bar and the stuffed mushroom caps. They’re shaped like little paw prints, adorable and only slightly disturbing.”
She swirls away in a cloud of crimson, perfume, and enthusiasm, leaving us at the edge of the crowd. Servers circle with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The room glitters with chandeliers and sophisticated shifters in their finest attire.
I’m just beginning to relax when I spot them across the room—two tall figures in archaic ceremonial wear, one conferring with a server while the other scans the crowd with calculating eyes.
“Finley.” I grip her elbow gently, steering her subtly toward a large floral arrangement. “Don’t look now, but my father and Alpha Dexter are here.”
She freezes mid-reach for a champagne flute. “What? How? This is by invitation only.”
“Red must have invited them,” I mutter, positioning myself to block their line of sight. “She probably thought it would make a good story, the estranged pack leaders witnessing our triumph. She probably expects my father to admit he was wrong. Fat chance of that.”
“Or your father pulled rank to get in.” Her expression darkens. “That’s far more likely, and after the pack gathering fiasco, he might be looking for round two.”
We watch in horror as Heath and Dexter make their way through the crowd, both wearing ridiculous “traditional leadership formal wear” that includes the ceremonial fur capes that shed visibly with each movement.
Small tufts of fur drift into cocktails and canapés as they pass, leaving a trail of discreetly grimacing guests.
“Should we run for it?” she whispers.
“They’ve already seen us.” I sigh, recognizing my father’s purposeful stride. “Time to face the music.”
Before they can reach us, Red intercepts them, her dress billowing dramatically as she corrals them toward a group of elderly panthers, who immediately look thrilled at the opportunity to corner authentic wolf pack leaders.
“She just bought us some time.” Finley inhales and exhales slowly. “Let’s mingle our way to the opposite side of the room.”
For the next hour, we engage in an elaborate ballroom dance of avoidance, circulating among guests while maintaining maximum distance from my father and Dexter. The effort would be comical if it weren’t so nerve-racking.
Our strategy works until a waiter backing away from a particularly enthusiastic bear shifter collides with Finley, sending her champagne sloshing directly onto the silk gown of none other than Dexter’s mate, Margaret Wilson.
“Oh!” Margaret gasps, looking down at the spreading stain.
“I am so sorry.” Finley grabs cocktail napkins, frantically blotting at the fabric. “The waiter bumped me. I didn’t mean—”
Margaret’s initial shock fades into recognition. “You’re the wolf from the pack gathering, who pinned Claudia Hayburn.”
Finley freezes, napkin suspended mid-dab. “Um, yes?”
To our mutual surprise, Margaret bursts into laughter.
“Good. That girl has needed taking down a peg for years. Always swanning around like she owns the territory.” She leans closer, conspiratorially.
“Between us, I’ve been hoping someone would challenge her properly.
Didn’t expect it to be you, but then again, appearances can be deceiving. ”
Finley blinks, clearly thrown by this unexpected ally. “You’re...not upset about your dress?”
“Silk dries.” Margaret waves dismissively. “Bruised egos take longer to heal. Now, tell me how you learned that maneuver. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
As Finley is whisked away by an unexpectedly friendly alpha’s mate, I find myself cornered by three elderly wolves, who recognize me from my childhood pack visits.
“Young Thornton.” The tallest one claps my shoulder with unnecessary force. “Just the wolf we need. We’ve been discussing investment strategies for our retirement funds.”
I try to demur. “I’m not really working tonight.”
“Nonsense! Just a quick consultation,” another insists, producing a napkin covered in what appears to be a crude drawing of a roulette wheel. “We’ve developed a system, you see. Guaranteed returns.”
For the next twenty minutes, I’m trapped in financial advisory purgatory, explaining why gambling systems aren’t actually investments while they counter with increasingly creative arguments about “statistical inevitabilities” and “psychic connections to the wheel.”