Page 3 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

The first week at Romance Expected feels like I’ve been tossed into a circus ring with a unicycle and no instruction manual.

My desk is buried under a teetering stack of questionnaires, held together by a single, overstretched rubber band that’s one wrong move from snapping.

Red dropped them off with a grin and a cheery, “Welcome to the team,” before vanishing, as if this paper avalanche is her version of a hazing ritual. I’m not sure she’s wrong.

I shift in my creaky chair and eye the top form.

It’s got a line for “species,” followed by a dizzying list of sub-questions about shifting triggers, fur allergies, and hybrid disclaimers.

This is no ordinary dating agency. Half our clients can turn into creatures straight out of a fantasy novel, and the other half probably wish they could.

I’m still adjusting to the fact that a red panda in a caftan climbing bookshelves is just another Tuesday here.

Despite the paperwork threatening to bury me, a grin creeps onto my face.

Yesterday, I was sweating over a coffee-stained résumé, dreading the idea of slinking back to my pack, tail between my legs.

Now, I’m an assistant at a shifter dating agency, and it’s already more thrilling than any job I’ve had.

I trace the edges of the top questionnaire to steady my nerves.

This place might just be my perfect fit.

The desk phone shrieks, nearly sending the paper tower crashing. My heart does a jittery flip, but I take a breath and answer with the polite line I remember Red using when I first called to schedule an interview, just swapping in my name. “Romance Expected, Finley speaking.”

A chipper voice replies. “Hi, I didn’t know there was a new assistant. I’m Clarissa, half-cougar, half-leopard. The system keeps listing me as half-lizard, which is rude. Can you confirm my appointment with Red?”

I fumble with the ancient scheduling software, which looks like it was designed for a nineties arcade game. Clarissa’s name pops up with a note in all caps: COUGAR/LEOPARD, NOT LIZARD. “You’re set for Tuesday at three. I’ll fix the lizard glitch.”

“Thanks!” The line goes dead.

I squint at the screen’s chaotic color-coding, thinking I have the hang of it, sort of.

Green is for wolves, orange for big cats, blue for bears, and rainbow for exotics.

Clarissa’s name blinks in an orange-lime swirl, marking her hybrid status.

So, this is my life now. Sorting through a zoo of romantic hopes and hilarious mix-ups.

Red sweeps in, balancing a tray of steaming coffee cups. “I grabbed these from downstairs,” she says, nudging aside a memo about confidentiality to set down the tray. “They’re pretentious, but their cappuccinos are divine.”

I grab a cup, grateful. “You’re saving me from eating that rubber band in a hunger-fueled haze.”

She laughs, eyeing the questionnaire stack. “Not too overwhelmed, I hope?”

I sip the coffee, which is leagues better than my usual burnt toast. “It’s the weirdest data entry I’ve ever done but also the best. These forms are like reading people’s diaries.”

Red raises her brows. “We do get personal. Gotta know if someone’s allergic to fur before they’re swapping spit on date three.” She heads for her office but pauses. “When you’ve got a sec, come see me. I’ve got something special for you.”

Curiosity prickles as she disappears. I gulp my coffee, muster some courage, and follow her into her office, the dazzling cave of red panda knickknacks and her Polaroid board labeled SUCCESSFUL MATCH.

She’s rifling through a filing cabinet, her lips pursed, until she pulls out a manila folder and hands it to me with a mischievous glint. “This is for you.”

The label reads “Michael Thornton (Wolf).” I blink, confused. “A client?”

“Yup,” she says, grinning. “He’s a wolf shifter we’ve been trying to match for ages with no luck. I want you to be his primary consultant.”

“Me?” I squeak. “I’m still figuring out which color is for badgers. Isn’t this a lot for week one?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got a hunch you’ll nail it. Michael’s the son of a beta in a traditional pack, but he’s a corporate finance guy, who sips artisanal tea. The wolves we paired him with wanted a rugged alpha who wrestles bears. He’s more about stock portfolios.”

I clutch the folder. “So, they think he’s too tame?”

“Pretty much.” Red leans against her desk. “He’s charming and educated, but every date’s been a flop. Mismatched expectations, mostly.”

I wince, flipping open the folder. A black-and-white photo shows a tall man in a sharp suit, exuding quiet confidence. A note mentions he likes “stargazing in remote locales,” which I find oddly endearing. “Okay, I’ll try to find him a match.”

Red chuckles. “Check the last page.”

I flip to a compatibility chart with pink hearts doodled in the margins. My nose wrinkles. “Why the arts and crafts?”

“Someone on staff got a crush on his profile,” she says, smirking. “Accidentally left it by the printer, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I did.”

My cheeks heat. “So, I’m handling a client who makes the team swoon?”

“Exactly, but I trust you. You get the pressure of traditional packs. You’ll relate.” She hands me a flash drive. “This has his data and failed date reports. Read up, and then set up a meeting with him. He might surprise you in person.”

I nod, my mind buzzing. “Got it.”

“Great. Keep sorting those questionnaires and flag any potential matches for Michael. Let’s avoid more disasters.” She winks, shooing me out.

Back at my desk, I dive into the questionnaires, scanning for anyone who might click with a corporate wolf.

A coyote shifter in finance seems promising, but her file notes she hates wolves for pack drama.

Nope. Another wolf loves extreme sports.

Definitely not Michael’s vibe. My stomach growls, and I briefly wonder if Michael’s a sandwich guy or a salad enthusiast before shaking off the thought. Stay professional, Finley.

By six, Red’s gone to meet a business contact, leaving me to lock up. Outside, the city hums with horns and street food smells. My phone shows three missed calls from Mom and a text from Dad: We’d like an update. Your mother is worried.

I mutter, “Worried about me or her social status?” A passing couple shoots me a look, and I wave sheepishly, heading to my apartment.

Inside, I hear thumps and yells. My new roommate, Penelope, a rabbit shifter and MMA fighter, is practicing her moves. She’s shadow-boxing in pink leggings, a paused fight on the TV. Spotting me, she stops, panting. “Late night, matchmaker? How’s the job?”

I drop my keys. “Weirdly fun. I’ve got a mountain of forms and a tricky wolf client.”

She snorts, unhooking her gloves. “Is he cute, at least?”

“I only saw a grainy photo,” I say, dodging. “Maybe handsome in a polished way. It doesn’t matter. He’s a client.”

Penelope smirks. “Sure. Hungry? I’m ordering takeout since I can’t cook to save my life.”

“Takeout sounds heavenly.” I groan. “No fish sauce, though. Last time, my wolf went feral.”

She nods, tapping her phone. “Chinese it is. So, you dodging your mom’s calls about alpha nephews?”

I sigh, picking at my shirt. “I’ll have to face her soon. She’s obsessed with me marrying up, like I’m a pedigree puppy.”

Penelope grimaces. “Gross. My folks want me pumping out rabbit babies. I told them I’d rather punch people for cash. We don’t talk much now.”

I laugh. “No regrets then?”

“None,” she says, ruffling her purple-streaked hair. “Food’s coming. Spicy tofu that’ll make you see stars.”

We eat at the tiny dining table, chili and garlic scents filling the air. Penelope asks, “Weirdest thing at work so far?”

“Tail grooming preferences,” I say, pointing a chopstick. “Some clients are obsessive about fur care in shifter form.”

She chokes on a laugh. “Do they ask how often you lick yourself?”

“Close enough. There’s even a question about sharing dens with multiple mates. Red had a whole rabbit warren sign up once.”

Penelope’s eyes widen. “With my seventeen siblings, I’m not surprised.”

My phone buzzes with Mom’s video call. Penelope raises her brows, but I sigh and answer. “Mom.”

Her face is pinched and hair in a stern bun. “You’ve ignored us all day.”

“I’m working,” I say, keeping my tone civil. “Second day at the new job.”

She spots Penelope in the background. “Can we speak privately?”

Irritation flares, but I take the phone to my room. “Okay, I’m alone. What’s up?”

Mom’s lips tighten, and Dad looms behind her. “Since you didn’t get back to your last date, we’re giving your number to an alpha’s cousin. He’s strong, polite, and perfect for a respectable wolf like you.”

I pinch my nose. “No, Mom. I’m done with blind dates.”

She scowls. “You can’t just float around the city forever. A mate is your future.”

“I’m not floating,” I snap. “I have a job I love, helping shifters find love without pack nonsense. I’m not meeting your alpha’s cousin or anyone else. I’m twenty-eight.”

Dad cuts in. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re protecting you.”

“By suffocating me?” I laugh bitterly. “That’s control, not care. I’m done.”

Mom’s eyes tear up theatrically. “You’re breaking our hearts.”

“I just want you to trust me,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m happy here. If I find a mate, it’ll be my choice, not yours.”

Dad mutters, “Don’t come crying when the city spits you out.”

Anger burns my eyes. “I won’t. Good night.” I hang up, trembling. Guilt nags, but I shove it down. Their threats don’t get to dictate my life.

Back at the table, Penelope tilts her head. “You okay?”

“I want to punch something. They’re stuck on traditions, but I feel bad for snapping.”

She pops tofu in her mouth. “You can’t burn yourself out for them. Their baggage isn’t your fault.”

I nod, my throat tight. “Thanks. I loved telling them off. It felt like a movie moment.”

She grins. “Total badass. It’ll stick.”

We finish eating, laughing over her MMA stories. She once hopped over a ring fence by accident, shocking everyone.

Later, in my room, I open Michael’s folder.

His failed dates are a litany of mismatches.

He hates forced matches, just like me. A color photo deeper in the file shows his dark-blond hair and guarded gray-blue eyes.

My heart flutters, but I slam the folder shut.

He’s a client, and I’m not going to get a crush on him.

I’ll brainstorm matches tomorrow and stay focused.

The next day, I approach Red, who’s decorating a Polaroid of a matched couple with sparkly hearts. “I’ve been looking at potential matches for Michael,” I say, holding up his file. “What about Sasha Miller, the lynx shifter?”

Red’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sasha? The environmental activist? With our corporate wolf?” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “That’s an unexpected suggestion.”

“I know they seem like opposites, but maybe that’s what he needs? Someone to push him out of his comfort zone?”

“Hmm.” Red studies me for a moment. “Sasha is intense. Very passionate about shifters embracing their ‘true nature.’ She might find Michael’s corporate lifestyle too...domesticated.”

I fidget with the file. “So, it’s a bad idea?”

“Not necessarily.” Red shrugs. “Sometimes, opposites do attract, and we’ve tried the ‘similar interests’ route with him before. Talk to Michael first to confirm his preferences.”

She hands me a card with his number and the agency’s paw-print logo. “Introduce yourself. He’s used to me, but you’ll do fine. Watch out, though, because his dad’s a traditionalist nightmare.”

“I get it,” I say softly, pocketing the card. My stomach flips, but it’s just a call. At my desk, I dial, my heart pounding. The line rings twice before a calm voice answers.

“Michael Thornton speaking.” He has a nice, smooth voice with enough baritone to make me shiver pleasantly.

“Hi, Michael. I’m Finley Morgan from Romance Expected. I’m taking over your account.”

After a brief pause, he says, “Red mentioned a new hire. Nice to meet you, Finley.”

My name in his voice causes another warm shiver. “Likewise. I’ve reviewed your file and have some match ideas, but I’d like to confirm details. Free for a meeting next week?”

“Wednesday at five works,” he says. “My schedule’s tight.”

“Great, see you then.” I hesitate and then add, “We’ll find someone who gets your finance and stargazing vibe. Promise.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

I hang up, adrenaline buzzing. His voice was reserved but kind, and I’m already curious about meeting him. “Stay professional,” I chant.

That evening, Penelope and I celebrate my “first big client call” with cheap sushi. She teases me for mentioning stargazing. “You’re basically flirting by saying you like his hobbies.”

“It slipped out,” I mumble, dipping a roll. “I was showing we care about his interests.”

She smirks. “Sure. Just don’t fall for him. He’s got the same family drama as you. Recipe for trouble.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not dating him. He’s a client.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she says, grinning.

We laugh and then dig through her yarn stash. She’s crocheting a pink cactus that looks like a cartoon prop. My attempts at helping unravel spectacularly, leaving us cackling until the neighbors bang on the wall.