Page 6 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Michael

I’m standing before my floor-length mirror, wrestling with a slate-gray tie for what feels like the dozenth time.

The tie’s weave is subtle and classic but maybe a smidge too formal for a date.

The problem is, I have no clue what a “date tie” should look like.

My history with “normal” dates is a train wreck that left the station long ago.

I smooth my shirt for nonexistent wrinkles, tilt my head to check my hair, and confirm everything’s neat.

Controlled. Just how I like it. Yet my heart’s pounding like I’m about to face a cage match, not a dinner.

Sure, part of my nerves comes from being a gray wolf shifter meeting another wolf, albeit an Eastern wolf, which is rare for me, but mostly, it’s Finley’s voice looping in my head.

“Veronica’s polished, cultured, and totally your speed.

” Her confidence made me think this date might actually work.

It’s pathetic how much her encouragement lights a fire under me, way more than my father’s endless lectures about finding a “worthy mate” to uphold pack glory.

Finley’s amber-eyed optimism has me half-believing I can pull this off.

I square my shoulders, shoving down the guilt that flares when I think of Dad’s expectations.

He wanted me as beta-in-training, a snarling pack leader.

I chose stock portfolios and city high-rises instead.

He calls it betrayal, but I call it freedom.

Once, he demanded to know why I’d ditch my wolf heritage for the “human rat race.” Maybe I just prefer the hum of spreadsheets to the howling dominance games of my childhood. Either way, I’m not that wolf anymore.

Tonight’s about Veronica, though. Finley says she’s a refined timber wolf, into art and culture.

The restaurant, La Canopée, is fancier than my usual haunts, but it’s a far cry from the chaos of my last date with Sasha, who humiliated me at that little organic café.

That disaster left me done with pointless matches, but Veronica sounds promising.

She asked for a “clean-cut, refined male wolf.” That’s me, right?

A finance guy, who sips artisanal tea and reads market reports for fun.

I squash the nagging fear that “clean-cut” just means “boring.” I’m methodical, not dull. Big difference.

I take a deep breath, grab my coat, and catch my reflection again.

A rogue wave in my hair defies my combing efforts.

I sigh and let it be. Perfection’s overrated, especially after today, when I squeezed in a lunch break call to Finley to confirm tonight’s time.

She sounded thrilled I was “taking initiative.” I didn’t admit I just wanted to hear her voice, not just nail down logistics.

That’s crossing a line, or so I tell myself.

I lock my apartment and stride down the quiet corridor.

The elevator ride gives me time to rehearse small talk about Veronica’s job, her art passion, and maybe the local gallery exhibit.

I’ll avoid pack politics or my father’s pressure since we’re city wolves and professionals who can talk about more than territory disputes or midnight runs.

Outside, the spring air carries a hint of summer. I hail a cab, my suit earning a quick pick-up. I give the driver La Canopée’s address, which is a fifteen-minute ride through city traffic. Staring out the window, I try to loosen my tense shoulders, but my reflection in the glass looks wired.

The neon blur of storefronts mirrors the chaos of recent months full of failed dates, Dad’s scolding, and a quiet ache for someone who gets me.

That’s what I’m chasing—understanding, not just from a mate but from myself.

It’s why Finley’s encouragement hits so hard. She sees me, not the pack’s idea of me.

The cab pulls up at La Canopée, a sleek tower with tinted glass.

The restaurant’s on the top floor, complete with a shifter-friendly rooftop garden.

A year ago, I’d have scoffed at the need for a private shifting space but now, it makes sense.

I pay, step onto the sidewalk, and ride the elevator up.

The doors open to a foyer lush with potted plants, like an indoor jungle.

The ma?tre d’ greets me like I’m royalty.

Veronica’s doing, I bet, or maybe Finley’s.

She arrives as I check my coat, a poised figure in a fitted black dress, silver-blonde hair swept up.

Her pale gray eyes spark with curiosity.

“Michael Thornton?” she says, extending a hand. She’s my height in high heels and exudes confidence. “I recognize you from Finley’s photo.”

I shake her hand, keeping my voice steady. “Veronica Timberlake, it’s good to meet you.”

She scans me, lingering on the suit. “Punctual. I appreciate that. I reserved the private garden area. Shall we?”

I follow her past the main dining room to a glass-enclosed rooftop garden.

Fairy lights twinkle under the roof, and thick foliage creates a cozy vibe.

The city’s hum is faint, making it feel intimate.

We sit by a small pond, the soft lighting borderline romantic.

I exhale, vowing not to let nerves derail me.

“This place is gorgeous,” I say, scanning for an opener.

Veronica nods. “I come here often. They’re discreet about shifters, which is crucial. I had a nightmare at another spot when they lost it over my ears shifting.”

I wince. “Humans get jumpy about partial shifts.”

“Exactly. I’m tired of tiptoeing around them like we’re freaks.” Her tone sharpens on “freaks.”

Studying the menu, I say, “The chef’s tasting looks solid. Any favorites?”

She traces the menu with a manicured nail. “The salmon’s divine, but I’m trying the stuffed mushrooms tonight. I prefer less meaty when I’m human.”

I raise a brow. Most wolves are meat fanatics. “That’s a bold choice.”

She smirks, teasing. “I’m full of bold choices.”

We order, and she gets mushrooms while I pick lamb.

She chooses wine, but I stick to water to stay sharp.

Small talk kicks off, feeling as tedious as ever.

She’s an art curator specializing in shifter artists, which I find genuinely cool.

I share my finance gig and stargazing hobby.

Her eyes light up. “A wolf into stars? Most of us are moon-obsessed. I like that you see the bigger picture.”

“Yeah, it’s the patterns and the science,” I say, warming to her. “The moon’s fine, but there’s so much more out there.”

She nods. “I get that with art. My favorite exhibits rework wolf myths about constellations. We might have more in common than I thought.”

Hope sparks that Finley nailed this match. We chat about city life, navigating wolf instincts in a human world. She drops hints about “true wolves” needing traditions, which I sidestep, focusing on her open-minded vibe. The waiter brings bread and infused oil, and we pause to dig in.

But when we touch on childhood, her face tightens as I mention my father’s beta role. “The old guard clings to pack nonsense,” she says, swirling her wine. “We’ve evolved.”

I sense judgment but keep it neutral. “Some are progressive, like my aunt. She’s a pack historian but supports my choices.”

Her lips twitch. “You seem…forward-thinking.”

Is that a dig? I pivot. “What drew you to art curation? It’s not exactly a wolf’s go-to.”

Her enthusiasm returns. “It’s about blending primal instincts with creativity. Our dual nature—shifting and hunting—pairs with high art. You should see the Timberlake Gallery’s new wolf-coyote hybrid sculptures. Haunting stuff.”

“I’ll check it out,” I say, meaning it. Her confidence is magnetic, though she seems used to owning the room. I meet her gaze, earning a flicker of approval.

Our appetizers arrive. Her mushrooms are drizzled with sauce, and my salad has goat cheese.

I eat a few bites before I feel a tingle in my nose, and a dry itch in my throat.

I frown, sipping water. Maybe it’s a garnish.

Ragweed’s my nemesis, and it sneaks into weird places.

I know it’s not the goat cheese, because I eat that frequently.

Veronica notices. “You okay?”

“Just a tickle,” I say, brushing it off. “Maybe pepper.”

She hums. “Allergies aren’t pretty for us. Are they?”

I force a laugh. “Nope.” I focus on my salad, willing the itch away. A sneeze in front of another wolf isn’t a crisis. Right?

But by the entrées, the itch intensifies. My eyes water. I dab them with my napkin, but Veronica looks concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I rub my nose, fighting a sneeze. “Not sure.” My voice shakes. “Hhk-SHH!”

The sneeze is muffled but jarring. My wolf stirs, half-shifting my nose in a humiliating twitch. I blush, hiding it with my napkin. Veronica frowns. “Allergies?”

“Maybe,” I mutter, my eyes streaming. “Could be herbs or…something.” Another sneeze hits, elongating my nose briefly. I cover my face, mortified, as my wolf threatens to push through. I clamp it down, my cheeks burning.

Veronica stands, grabbing her purse. “I can’t do this. Are you allergic to me?”

“No—I don’t know,” I stammer between sneezes. “I’m so sorry—”

She grimaces. “I’ve heard of wolves with weak immunities.

I can’t stay and get sneezed on. I have a meeting later.

” She strides off, muttering about “defective genes.” Shame and anger churn as I sneeze again, half-shifting.

I’m glad she reserved the private area, but it’s still embarrassing.

A staff member offers help, but I wave him off, standing with a napkin to my face.

I drop several bills on the table, unable to clearly see the denominations through tears mixing with the allergic reaction, but I know I leave enough. Probably too much, given my current state.

Stumbling outside, I lean against the wall.

The sneezing soon subsides but leaves me drained.

I review the food I ate and know I’m not allergic to any of it, so that leaves the most likely conjecture.

I had an allergic reaction to my date. I groan aloud at the thought.

Who does that? Veronica’s gone, and I feel like the outcast I swore I wasn’t.

My wolf wants to shift, but I force it down.

Public shifts are taboo, even though humans know about us. They just don’t want to see it.

I realize I have no tissues, and there are no cabs.

Rain starts falling, soaking my suit. I walk, pride keeping me upright despite my squelching shoes.

I ditch them, letting my wolf side feel the wet pavement.

It’s oddly grounding, even if I’m a walking cliché of a sad, drenched guy.

My phone shows a missed text from Dad about a pack gathering.

I scowl, ignoring it. His pressure’s the last thing I need.

The drizzle turns into a downpour. Water flattens my hair and drips into my collar.

I could duck into a café, but I keep walking, needing to clear my head.

Veronica’s “defective” jab stings deeply.

It’s not just her rejection but the fear I’ll never fit with wolves or humans.

I limp along, half-laughing at how absurd I must look.

Nearing my building, the doorman eyes my soggy state.

“Rough night,” I mutter.

He nods silently and opens the door extra wide for me.

In the elevator, my reflection shows a plastered suit, messy hair, and puffy eyes. Definitely not the date vibe I was going for. I unlock my apartment, peel off my dripping jacket, and let it pool water on the tile.

Veronica’s “defective” comment loops in my head.

I towel off, brew a calming tea blend, and slump on the couch.

My throat’s still dry, but the sneezing’s stopped.

It had to be Veronica and her unique pheromones or dander.

What a cosmic prank, having a gray wolf be allergic to a timber wolf.

I sip tea, staring at the dark TV screen, and my drooping reflection mocks me.

What bugs me most isn’t Veronica’s exit.

It’s how I felt more understood in five minutes with Finley than an hour with her, and that’s trouble.

Finley’s my matchmaker, a wolf who gets my fight against pack traditions.

Maybe I’m just desperate for acceptance and latching on to her empathy. I can’t blur that line.

My phone buzzes with a text from my aunt Eleanor: Heard about the date. Don’t let your father’s nonsense get to you. Here if you need me. I grit my teeth. How’d word spread? Veronica? Dad’s rumor network? I set down the phone, not ready to reply. Instead, I debate texting Finley. No, it’s too soon.

Tomorrow, I’ll face her pity at the agency, confessing another flop. I picture her encouraging smile post-Veronica, or her brow wrinkling in concern. My cheeks heat as I realize I’m daydreaming about my matchmaker. “Knock it off,” I mutter.

I finish my tea, clean the puddle by the door, and head for a hot shower.

Steam washes away the sneezing residue, but my red eyes in the fogged mirror scream failure.

Veronica’s “defective genes” taunt me. It’s not my fault I’m allergic to her, but I recall her comment about weak immunity, which reflects how I sometimes feel in my whole life—weak.

Ineffectual. I linger under the water, letting it pound my shoulders until it cools.

In sweatpants, I collapse into bed. My phone buzzes with a message from a coworker asking me to come in early for a client portfolio.

I type Yes and then silence it. Sleep’s elusive as I imagine the date with Veronica ending in laughs and promises to see each other again instead of sneezes.

Yet Finley’s face keeps slipping in. She’s not my date, so why’s she the one in my thoughts?