Page 4 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

The next morning, I’m giving myself a stern pep talk in the mirror, but I don’t exactly look stern.

My reflection shows a woman with hair that refuses to stay tamed, cheeks flushed with stress, and shoulders that keep creeping upward as though trying to clamber into my ears.

I tug on the hem of my blouse, which might be one size too small thanks to an impulsive purchase from a clearance rack.

Why did I think I could wear an extra-snug wrap top for a big day like this?

I pace the narrow strip of hallway between my room and the kitchen.

Penelope’s voice echoes from the living room, where she’s sprawled on the couch crocheting a neon-pink cactus.

She insists it’s for stress relief, but it looks like a Technicolor hazard.

My stomach lurches every time I think about what awaits me at the office—my very first face-to-face consultation with Michael Thornton, the complicated wolf shifter who scorns pack traditions, invests in human finance, and apparently checks off half the boxes for “impossible to match.” I can do this because I understand wolfish parental oppression more than most.

I straighten my posture again, forcing my shoulders down. “I can do this.”

Penelope lets out a theatrical sigh. “You’ve said that six times in the past ten minutes.”

I take a moment to gather my dignity… what little I have left. “I’m psyching myself up.”

She gestures with her crochet hook. “Look, you’re an assistant at Romance Expected. You’re supposed to be the cool, empathetic wolf, who can handle a complicated case. If you don’t calm down, you’ll freak him out.”

I fold my arms, but it’s more to keep them from shaking. “I’m calm. I’m a Zen meadow of daisies.”

She snorts. “Sure you are. Now, about that top. Are you going to be able to breathe while taking notes, or will you pass out from compression?”

Heat flashes across my cheeks. “Rude.”

“You asked me to keep you honest,” she says in a singsong voice, returning her focus to the crocheted cactus. “Besides, I’m making sure you don’t embarrass yourself by spontaneously ripping seams if your heart starts pounding.”

I glance down, checking that the blouse’s wrap knot is secure.

My reflection wasn’t lying; I do look a little squeezed.

I mumble something about it being professional but form-fitting and then fling open the closet door and rummage for a backup.

The best I can do is a loose gray blouse that’s a bit wrinkled, but at least it’s comfortable.

I strip out of the too-tight one—Penelope snickering at the entire process—and then slip on the gray top.

I smooth it down, ignoring the mirror’s taunt that it’s slightly boring.

She sets aside the cactus yarn. “Now you look less like you’re auditioning for a TV anchor role and more like a normal person. It suits you.”

I exhale a laugh. “Thank you, oh wise bunny.” I check the clock on my phone. “I need to go, though. If I show up late, Red might feed me to her red panda cousins.”

Penelope flicks an ear in mock empathy. “And we can’t have that. Go wow your fancy wolf man.”

I grab my purse, ignoring the spike of nerves that phrase unleashes. “He’s not mine. He’s a client.”

She smirks, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Tell that to your face every time you talk about him.”

I refuse to take the bait, darting out the door before I have to defend myself. Honestly, it’s not that I have a crush or anything. I’m just determined to prove that I can handle a tough case and maybe help a fellow misfit find love without being hammered by pack expectations.

That’s all.

Outside, the city hums with early traffic.

I wave down a bus—my typical mode of transport when I’m too frazzled to navigate the crowded subway or pull my car out of parking—and spend the ride rehearsing how to greet Michael.

“Hi, I’m Finley. So nice to finally meet you face-to-face.

I’m your new consultant, and I promise not to drag you on a group hunt.

” Too flippant. “Mr. Thornton, I appreciate your time.” That’s probably too stiff. Ugh.

By the time I hop off near the agency, my stomach’s in knots.

The building’s second-floor entrance greets me with a swirl of stylized letters that read Romance Expected.

Inside, the waiting room is empty except for a boar shifter flipping through a magazine called Sloth Shifters: Myths and Realities .

He glances up, sees I’m not Red, and returns to reading. Fine with me.

I slip into the back office, where I find Red perched on a stool, feeding Polaroid film into our ancient camera. “Morning. You ready for Michael?”

My throat feels dry. “Absolutely. Do you know if he’s still coming?”

She nods at the clock. “As far as I know, yes. I left a pot of coffee in the break area.”

Coffee. My lifeblood. “You’re a saint.” I hurry off for a cup, determined to avoid fiascos.

Still, I glance at the battered ceramic “I HOWL AT MY OWN JOKES” mug that normally brightens my day.

Then I remember how unprofessional it might look, so I grab a plain, nondescript mug from the cabinet.

The coffee is lukewarm but better than nothing.

At least I won’t spill it all over my outfit again.

I spend a busy day juggling tasks, reviewing my notes on Michael in between, including the type of partner he’s seeking, the fiascos of his past dates, and the ephemeral frustration he feels at always being seen as “not wolf enough.” This resonates with me so strongly that I have to swallow the lump in my throat.

The more I empathize, the harder it is to separate my personal experiences from our professional relationship, but I can handle it. I will handle it.

I’m a bundle of nerves by four fifty-five. Red’s off-site, so I’m alone when Michael arrives. He steps in, tall and lean in a navy blazer, his gray-blue eyes scanning the room. He’s polished, precise, and unfairly handsome. “Finley?” he says, nodding politely.

“Hi,” I say, smiling. “Nice to meet you. Come in.”

I lead him to a consultation room with a “SHIFT AT YOUR OWN RISK” sign. Settling across from him, I notice his careful grace, which is more catlike than wolf. “Thanks for coming. I know you’re busy.”

“I work downtown.” He shrugs. “It’s not far, and I’m curious if Red gave up on me.”

“No way,” I say. “She adores you. I’m new, and she thought we’d click, given…similar backgrounds.” I don’t mention our shared pack struggles. “I’m sorry your dates haven’t worked out.”

He exhales. “Not your fault. I just haven’t found a good match yet.”

I nod. “I get it. I’m a wolf, too, from a traditional pack. I moved here to dodge forced alpha dates. So, I relate.”

His eyes flicker with surprise, maybe relief. “You probably do.”

“I was thinking about a lynx shifter named Sasha,” I say, trying to sound casual. “She’s passionate about environmental causes and has a very...free-spirited approach to life.”

Michael’s eyebrows lift slightly. “That sounds quite different from my usual circles.”

“Sometimes different perspectives can be refreshing,” I suggest, though I’m already doubting this match. “But if you’re not comfortable—”

“No, I’m willing to try,” he says with a small smile. “After all, the similar types haven’t worked out so far.”

“Noted,” I say, scribbling. “Honesty check. Are you here because you want a partner or because your dad’s pushing you?”

He studies me and then says, “I want someone who respects me for me. My father’s noise, but I don’t let it control me.”

“Good,” I say. “We’ll set up a low-pressure date. Next weekend?”

“Works,” he says, checking his phone. “Work’s crazy, and my aunt’s visiting. She’s the only one who doesn’t nag me about pack duties.”

“She sounds great,” I say, a pang of envy hitting me.

“She is,” he says, a soft smile breaking through.

We chat a bit longer, easing his tension. He even laughs when I mention the Elvis-werefox client. I’m confident I can match him, but his dry wit and quiet charm make it hard to ignore my attraction. I manage to stay professional, barely.

We set up the date for the following week at a casual café that Sasha suggested, specializing in locally-sourced, organic food. “I’ll confirm everything with Sasha,” I say at the door. “I’ll be available if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Finley,” he says. “It’s refreshing to work with someone who understands the...complexities of pack expectations.”

After he leaves, I sit at my desk, staring at Sasha’s file with growing doubt. Have I just set up a spectacular disaster?

That evening, I push the agency’s glass door open and step out onto the busy sidewalk.

Traffic whizzes by, horns blaring, and the scent of fried street food drifts on the breeze.

I pass a ramen shop, nearly salivating from the savory broth aromas, but I promised Penelope I’d pick up groceries so we don’t starve on leftover takeout again.

A wave of adult responsibility washes over me.

Penelope meets me at the store, wearing bright green leggings and a baggy hoodie that proclaims “Fight like a Bunny.” She’s scanning the produce section with the keen eye of a predator, sniffing tomatoes suspiciously. I approach, grabbing a basket.

She brandishes a carrot in greeting. “Hello, matchmaker. Survive your day?”

I roll my eyes, reaching for a head of lettuce. “It was fine. Michael Thornton is all set for a date with a lynx.”

She arches a brow. “I bet you were oh-so-friendly while signing him up.”

I shoot her a look that clearly says “Enough.” She laughs, dropping the carrot into the basket. “You’re too easy to poke, but seriously, how was it?”

“Professional,” I say, selecting some apples. “He’s polite, quiet, and probably dreading Friday. I hope it works out.”

Penelope tosses a few bell peppers in and then turns down the aisle with me. “Let’s do a stir-fry tonight. I’ll chop if you do the cooking. Deal?”