Page 7 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Finley

I slump at my desk in the middle of Romance Expected’s back office, scanning the last date report from Michael’s fiasco with Veronica and blowing a lock of hair out of my eyes.

The last few lines read “EXCUSED HERSELF WHEN WE DISCOVERED I’M ALLERGIC TO HER.

DEEMED ME DEFECTIVE. DATE ENDED AbrUPTLY.

” That’s it. No mention of how he must have felt being left mid-sneeze.

I can practically hear him apologizing to some startled waiter while Veronica storms off, convinced he’s a “defective” wolf.

My stomach churns with secondhand embarrassment.

Michael deserves better than that, which is why I’m determined to fix this, or at least do damage control.

He’s had a string of calamitous dates, yet he hasn’t given up.

That alone tells me he still wants to find a real match, not give in to the cynicism that’s probably screaming in his ear right now.

I eye the thick binder of prospective matches for him, marked with a neon green Post-it note that reads “Finley’s Final Frontier.

” My sense of humor gets weirder by the day, apparently.

Setting my coffee mug aside—today I did bring my beloved “I HOWL AT MY OWN JOKES” mug because I need all the moral support I can get—I shuffle through the pages.

My gaze snags on a coyote shifter’s profile belonging to Diana Stone, a financial analyst at a rival firm in the city.

She’s tall, well-traveled, college-educated, and glows with the same kind of corporate hustle that Michael embraces.

On paper, it seems promising—or at least not doomed.

But I recall something in the notes about her being “direct,” which is code for “might grill you about your entire life.” I set aside the lingering worry that she’ll pester Michael about his trade secrets.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that a modicum of caution can prevent disasters.

If she’s truly that nosy, I can warn Michael in advance to keep the conversation neutral.

It still feels like a gamble, but I’m short on perfect solutions, and ironically, coyote-wolf pairings sometimes work well.

Opposite energies that spark, or so Red says.

The real problem is how my mind keeps drifting to a completely unprofessional hope that none of these matches pan out.

That’s not right. I’m supposed to be helping him find love, not harboring some selfish flicker of jealousy, but I’m only human—well, wolf—and it stings to think that another woman might notice how his voice softens when he talks about finances he’s passionate about, or how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.

I’ve replayed those details so many times in my head it’s like a highlight reel of every conversation we’ve had.

Ridiculous, especially since we’re colleagues, in a sense.

He’s a client, and I’m supposed to remain professional.

I tap my pen on the desk, scowling at myself. If he finds happiness, that’s the entire point of my job. My own fluttery feelings need to get lost. I grumble under my breath, “You’ve read too many romance novels.” Decision made, I open my email and type a quick message to Michael:

Hi Michael,Hope you’re doing well. I have a new match in mind—Diana, a coyote shifter who works in finance. She’s suggested bowling as a fun, low-pressure date. Sound good? Let me know your availability.—Finley

I hover, checking for typos. My chest tightens with the knowledge that the second I hit “send,” I’m one step closer to handing him to someone else, but that’s the job. I jam the enter key, cringe, and then slump back in my seat, cursing the swirl of contradictory emotions.

A few minutes later, the phone on my desk rings. Perfect timing, as though the universe can’t let me wallow. I snatch up the receiver. “Romance Expected, Finley speaking.”

A polite voice: “Hi, it’s Lucy, the half-moose/half-deer shifter. Just confirming my date next week. Is it still on?”

I thumb through my planner, ignoring the mild comedic surge. “Yes, you’re set for next Thursday at seven at a nature preserve for a picnic.”

Lucy sighs in relief. “Thank you. That’s perfect. I get anxious around big crowds.”

We chat politely a moment before I hang up. My phone pings with an email notification from Michael, a lot quicker than I expected:

Hi Finley,Bowling sounds good. I’m free this Friday at 7 p.m. Let’s do it. See if the coyote is up for it.Thanks,Michael

I swallow a lump. He’s game, which is exactly what I wanted.

Right? Right. I fire off another email to Diana, hooking her in.

She responds almost immediately with a cheerful, “Sure, I’ll make it happen.

This Friday is perfect.” No hesitation, no beating around the bush.

That might be refreshing for Michael, or it might lead to a meltdown, but I’ll trust my instincts for once.

Friday arrives too soon, bringing that usual swirl of frantic calls.

A badger wants a refund because her last date tried to show her a “traditional badger burrow,” which might have been romantic if it weren’t full of fleas.

Meanwhile, Red tries to stage a group counseling session between a trio of ferret siblings who all want to date the same hawk.

I hide in the back office at one point just to breathe.

Over lunch, Penelope texts me to say she’s discovered a new crochet pattern for “angry carrots,” which she claims to be making for me as stress relief.

I roll my eyes at my phone, but it does lighten my mood a bit.

Everything quiets down around four-thirty, leaving me with a suspicious amount of free time.

Michael’s date is set for seven at Strike & Shift, a bowling alley known for shifter-friendly policies.

They let you wear partial forms if you pay a deposit in case you claw the equipment.

I click around the system to finalize details, telling myself I’m just thorough, not obsessing.

I’m about to pack up and leave for the day when Red breezes in, a smudge of what looks like bamboo candy near her mouth. She quirks an eyebrow at the neat pile of files on my desk. “Wow, you’re all caught up? I might faint from shock.”

I stretch my arms overhead. “Don’t get too excited. The phone will ring any minute with a meltdown. By the way, thanks for the group counseling assignment for those ferrets. That was pure chaos.”

She laughs. “You survived. Means you’re leveling up. So… How’s Michael’s new date plan?”

I exhale. “Bowling, seven o’clock, coyote named Diana. She’s in finance, too. On paper, it’s a good fit, or so I hope. He’s had enough fiascos.”

“Excellent.” Red taps her chin, a knowing look in her eyes. “You planning to go home soon, or are you going to lurk here to see if he calls?”

I shoot her a mock-glare. “I’m leaving, obviously.”

She snorts. “Uh-huh. If you do stay, remember to lock up. My date with a certain wombat shifter is at eight, so I’ll be out. The office is all yours if you want it.”

She tosses me the keys with a wink, leaving me half-bemused, half-annoyed that she sees through my facade so easily.

Five minutes later, I’m alone in the quiet building, keys in hand and bag slung over my shoulder.

I flick the lights off in the main corridor and then hesitate at the threshold.

Why is my chest tight? Because Michael is about to meet someone who might be perfect for him, and I’m both excited for his success and unsettled by how that might end. My wolf side bristles at the weird mix.

I step into the hallway, lock the door, and start descending the stairs.

Then my phone buzzes with a new message from an unknown number.

I freeze, checking the screen. The text reads: Got your number from your mom.

My name’s Beck. Heard you’re free for dinner next week?

I’m an alpha’s nephew. My stomach lurches as I realize this is exactly the kind of meddling I escaped by moving to the city—another pushy alpha, courtesy of dear old Mom.

My blood boils. Enough is enough. Rather than let this ruin my night, I slap the phone back into my pocket and vow to call my mother tomorrow.

She’s stepped way over the line. I exhale a shaky breath and rummage for my car keys.

My car is parked a few blocks away. Maybe I should go home, drown my frustration in leftover pizza, and watch a cheesy rom-com, something to remind me that at least fictional couples can find happiness.

By the time I reach my parking spot, though, I’m still wound up.

I stare at the traffic creeping along the main street, weighing the idea of being alone in my apartment since Penelope has a date…

and realize I don’t want that. Maybe I’ll just tidy the office for a couple more hours.

That’s innocent enough, and I can bury my angst under refiling all those intake forms. Productive, yes.

Not at all about me wanting to be near the phone if Michael calls. Definitely not.

I turn around, heading right back to the building while ignoring the self-mockery in my head.

The security guard is a little surprised to see me re-enter, but I wave politely and claim I forgot something.

He shrugs, letting me pass. My footsteps echo in the now-dark stairwell as I ascend to the second floor, feeling like a sneaky intruder in my own workplace.

The overhead lighting is mostly off, so I flick on a small lamp near the reception desk and then slip into the back room where we store client files.

The fluorescent hum is oddly comforting.