Page 8 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

I set my phone on the desk, resisting the urge to check it every thirty seconds.

Instead, I tackle a chaotic drawer labeled “Bears & Hybrids,” which is a bottomless pit of unfiled documents.

Within minutes, I’m knee-deep in forms for everything from black bears and grizzlies to lesser-known hybrids with raccoons.

The comedic variety of personality quirks lifts my mood.

One form states, “I don’t care about looks as long as they can handle my hibernation schedule. ” I snort-laugh at that.

Time slips away without my noticing. At some point, I glance at the clock on the computer screen, startled to see it’s nearly eight-thirty.

That means Michael’s been at the bowling alley for over an hour and a half, which could be good news.

Maybe they’re hitting it off. Or maybe it’s an unmitigated disaster.

But if so, he’d text me. Right? My chest tenses again. Why do I want to know so badly?

I force my attention back to the forms, reorganizing and labeling new folders while checking for duplicates.

It’s mindless enough that I don’t realize how late it’s gotten until my phone buzzes around nine-fifteen.

I jump so violently that I nearly spill an entire stack of papers.

My heart hammers as I snatch up the phone, scanning the screen. It’s Michael.

Are you still at the office?

My breath catches. Why is he texting me? Because the date ended early, presumably. Maybe it was good, and he wants to celebrate? Or maybe it was horrifying, and he needs to vent. My mind whirls. I type back with sweaty palms:

Yes, I’m finishing some filing. Everything okay?

His response is immediate: I’ll be there in fifteen. Got dinner if you’re hungry.

He’s bringing dinner. A swirl of relief, confusion, and something suspiciously like excitement floods me.

I type back a quick Sure without overthinking and then press my back against the filing cabinet, exhaling shakily.

He’s done with the date already, which can’t be a good sign for him and Diana, but I can’t stop the flicker of happiness that he’s reaching out to me.

Fifteen minutes is enough time to tidy up the mound of forms so I don’t look like I panicked.

I shuffle them into the proper places and do a quick check in the mirror at Red’s desk to ensure I’m not covered in filing dust. My hair’s a frizz ball from the humidity, so I twist it into a low bun.

Good enough. The office is quiet except for the faint hum of the AC as my pulse does a wild tango.

When the knock on the locked glass door comes, I hurry to open it, flipping the switch for the overhead light in the reception area.

Michael stands there, casual in jeans and a neatly pressed dress shirt, carrying a plastic bag from Golden Panda Express, the best Chinese takeout in the neighborhood.

He looks…not miserable, exactly, but subdued.

I catch the faint slump of his shoulders before he straightens to greet me.

“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than intended. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pushing damp hair off his forehead. He must’ve walked here. The faint sheen in his eyes suggests maybe the date upset him, but I keep my expression neutral. “Thanks,” he murmurs, holding up the bag. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten.”

I shake my head, locking the door behind him. “I’ve had no chance yet, so that’s very thoughtful. Thanks.”

He sets the bag on the reception desk, glancing around at the dimly lit space. “You really are working late.”

I shrug. “Just reorganizing some files. My life is pure glamour, as you can see.”

A tired smile flickers across his face. “Better than my evening. Mind if we eat somewhere less formal than that interview room?”

I gesture to a small break area in the back, where a simple round table sits with mismatched chairs. “Let’s do it. The overhead light is a bit harsh, but it’s more comfortable.”

He nods, following me. I flip on a softer lamp near the table, and we sit, sliding aside a few unfiled folders.

He begins unpacking containers of fried rice, General Tso’s chicken, dumplings, and fortune cookies.

The scent hits my nose, and my stomach growls audibly, reminding me I never had dinner.

I shoot him a sheepish look, and he laughs quietly.

We dig in, the awkward silence persisting until I summon the courage to ask, “So, how was the date with Diana?”

He grimaces, scooping rice onto a paper plate. “Bowling was fine. The problem was everything else. She basically interrogated me about my firm’s accounts, wanting to glean tips for her clients. She wasn’t subtle.”

I slump. “Ugh, I was worried that might happen. Did you end up telling her anything?”

He stabs a piece of chicken with a plastic fork.

“Not a chance. I can handle pushy questions. The real kicker came when her fancy pen fell into my drink. It turned out it was a recording device. It shorted out and caused a mini electrical fire in the mug. The staff freaked and used a fire extinguisher. Everyone was coughing on foam while she scrambled to salvage her spy pen.”

My jaw drops, half in horror, half in comedic disbelief. “Oh, that’s…definitely not covered in the ‘safe date tips’ manual. I am so sorry.”

He waves off my apology. “Not your fault. She’s cunning but apparently not so cunning that she can keep her spy gadgets safe from beer.” A faint chuckle rumbles in his chest. “At least I was spared another humiliating scenario of sneezing or something.”

A surge of sympathy splices with relief in me. “That’s good. Seriously, though, you’re sure you’re okay? Another date gone bust… I know it’s frustrating.”

He exhales. “It is, but I’m more amused than upset this time. She was so blatant.” He sets down his fork, meeting my gaze. “I keep saying I might stop trying, but something makes me come back. Maybe a foolish hope that the next one won’t blow up.”

My heart twists. “That’s not foolish at all. Everyone deserves a real connection.”

He nods, chewing on a dumpling thoughtfully. “I guess that’s why I keep letting you set me up. I trust you won’t throw me at some unhinged maniac.”

A wry laugh escapes me. “That is my job description. ‘No maniacs, guaranteed.’ Sorry I failed you this time.”

“Don’t apologize.” His tone is gentle. “This is the best the city has to offer, apparently—sneezing fiascos and corporate espionage.”

I cringe, remembering how he’s endured so many humiliations. “I promise we’ll do better next time. If you’re up for a next time, that is.”

He shrugs, and for a moment, his eyes reflect a quiet vulnerability that tugs at me. “We’ll see. Right now, I’m content eating dumplings in a quiet office with someone who isn’t trying to exploit me.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, and I force a casual smile while picking up a plastic fork. “Sounds like a wise plan.”

We eat in companionable silence for a bit, though I notice how easy it is to be around him, with no forced small talk or posturing. He asks about my day, and I tell him about the ferret siblings fighting over a hawk. He laughs, an actual hearty laugh that softens his usually guarded features.

He leans back in his chair. “So, does it ever drive you nuts? Listening to all these heartbreak stories?”

I consider it, swirling a piece of chicken in sauce. “Sometimes, but it’s also nice to see how different shifters are. They each have a story and a reason they didn’t fit into the typical mold. We’re all outcasts in some way.”

His gaze flickers to me in curiosity. “You, too?”

I swallow, setting down my fork. “Especially me. My parents tried to set me up with every alpha in a hundred-mile radius. My mother still spams me with new ‘perfect matches’ every other week. I only half-joke that I ran away to the city so I could breathe.”

He nods slowly, an understanding in his expression that feels almost intimate. “I get it. My father’s beta and wanted me to follow in his footsteps. Instead, I said no and dove into finance. He acts like I’m a traitor to the entire pack.”

A hush descends, thick with a shared sense of being scorned for not fitting some archaic standard.

My wolf stirs in sympathy, and we exchange a glance that’s a beat too long to be purely professional.

I blink, snapping the tension by grabbing the fortune cookies from the bag.

“Time for dessert. Maybe we’ll get fortunes that say something positive for once. ”

He smirks. “Better than a day like this, right?”

We each crack open a cookie. I read mine aloud. “‘Embrace the unexpected. Your hidden talent will open new doors.’” I snort, unimpressed. “Sure, I’ll keep an eye out for that.”

He glances at his slip of paper, his eyebrows rising. He nearly chokes, clearing his throat. “Mine says, ‘Your perfect match is closer than you think.’ A bit on the nose.”

My stomach does a nervous flip. “Fortune cookies can be creepy like that.” I hope he doesn’t see my cheeks heating. I shrug, trying to sound casual. “Probably means your next date is right around the corner, if you’re not giving up.”

He regards me for a moment, his expression indecipherable, and then tucks the slip into his pocket. “I guess so. Or maybe it’s just cheap fortune cookie talk.”

I force a laugh. “Likely.” But my heart is thudding too fast for cheap talk.

We chat a bit longer, finishing off the meal, and the conversation flows effortlessly.

We discover we both love random obscure documentaries.

He’s recently watched one about the world’s oldest library in Timbuktu while I’m fascinated by a doc on weird cryptid sightings in the Appalachians.

The easy back-and-forth feels oddly intimate.

At one point, I notice how his voice softens if we stray into topics he’s truly passionate about, like global market shifts or the intricacies of wolf genealogies.

The tension of the day seeps away, replaced by a quiet contentment I rarely find on my own.

Time passes in a blur. We only snap out of it when my phone buzzes with an incoming call from Red. I jump, glance at the screen, and hold up a finger. “One sec.” I answer quickly, “Hey, Red, is everything okay?”

Her voice filters through, playful but with an edge of concern. “I’m fine, but I saw the office lights are still on when I passed by. Are you setting up a rave in my building? Should I expect ferrets with glow sticks?”

I chuckle, aware that Michael is listening with curiosity. “No ferrets, I promise. I’m just finishing up some leftover tasks. Sorry. I’ll turn them off soon.”

She hums. “All right. Don’t stay too late. You have a big day tomorrow with the new client orientation, and if you’re with a certain Mr. Thornton, no hanky-panky on my desk, please.”

My cheeks flare with heat. “What? Red! Ugh, no. That’s definitely not happening.”

She cackles and then hangs up before I can retaliate. I set the phone aside, refusing to meet Michael’s eyes, but I see the amused quirk of his eyebrows. “That was Red checking in,” I explain unnecessarily, clearing my throat.

He glances around, noticing how dim the corridor is beyond our little lamp. “It is pretty late, huh?”

Suddenly, we’re hyper-aware of how we’re alone in a quiet office, empty takeout containers scattered, and the conversation drifting into personal territory.

My wolf half is practically wagging its tail at how comfortable it feels with him while my professional side screams to reestablish boundaries.

I swallow. “We should, um, probably clean up. I need to lock up soon. Early morning, like Red said.”

He nods, standing to help gather containers and wipe the table. When we finish, we walk to the front desk, where I deposit everything into the trash bin. He studies me for a moment and then says softly, “Thanks for letting me vent and for not making me feel like an idiot.”

I smile, hugging myself to keep from doing anything foolish like hugging him. “You’re not an idiot, Michael. You just haven’t found the right person yet, but you will.”

He gazes at me, his lips parted as though he wants to respond. Instead, he just nods, stepping back. “I’ll see you soon, I guess, if I haven’t permanently sworn off dating. Good night, Finley.”

The sound of my name in his voice sends a quiet warmth through me. “Good night,” I manage, unlocking the front door so he can slip out into the hallway. I watch his tall frame recede, a swirl of conflicting emotions tangling in my heart.

Only when I lock the door again do I let out a shaky exhale.

That felt more like a date than any of Michael’s actual dates.

I can still smell the faint pine-and-paper scent he carries, mingled with the tang of Chinese takeout.

A part of me wonders if I’m deluding myself and crossing lines I shouldn’t cross.

Another part insists I’m just being supportive, the same way I would be for any client.

That’s a lie. My wolf is practically giddy with the knowledge that we have a deeper connection. Reality check time. That’s not how this job is supposed to go. Telling Red I’m pining for a client would put me in the professional doghouse. Or wolfhouse, I guess.

I turn off the lights, gather my things, and step out into the hallway.

The building is silent. Outside, the city night wraps me in a swirl of neon and honking cars.

The air is humid, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and late-night food carts.

I walk to my car, letting the evening breeze cool my heated cheeks.

My mind replays his fortune cookie’s words: “Your perfect match is closer than you think.” Usually, fortune cookies are fluff, but for a wild moment, I imagine a parallel world where that message is about me and Michael.

I shake my head, banishing the daydream.

He’s a client. I’m doing him a disservice if I sabotage potential matches, but the leftover warmth from our easy conversation lingers, and a small part of me hopes .

Maybe he’ll find the right person eventually, but for tonight, I can pretend that might be me.