Page 9 of Howling Mad (Romance Expected Dating Service #1)

Michael

I wake up earlier than usual, which is strange because I went to bed with my mind in a thousand places.

The fiasco with Diana keeps replaying on a loop of her pen fizzling out in the mug of beer followed by the fire extinguisher foam and then me trudging to the agency in a daze.

It ended with that surprisingly effortless conversation with Finley over takeout.

My apartment is quiet, but my thoughts churn with the memory of Finley’s laugh and the subtle warmth in her gaze when she realized we share an interest in obscure documentaries. She felt more genuine in those late-night minutes than any date I’ve had in years.

I shower, dress, and glance at my reflection in the mirror, but everything inside me crackles with an energy I can’t quite place.

My father’s voice echoes from memory, scolding me for leaving the pack to chase a “human” career, but I push it aside.

I feel a flutter in my chest whenever I recall Finley’s bright eyes as we bonded over random knowledge, or the way she teased me about the fortune cookie.

I try to ignore it. She’s my matchmaker, after all.

The lines are murky, but I have no idea if I want them to remain that way or break them entirely.

My rational mind says professional boundaries exist for a reason while some deeper part of me wonders if I’ve found the one wolf who actually sees me.

Either way, I’m running late to the office.

I grab my keys and lock the door, stepping into the corridor of my building with a forced sense of composure.

The city outside is fully awake. Cars funnel through congested streets, horns beep in a disharmonious symphony, and a sidewalk vendor hollers about fresh bagels.

Normally, I’d tune everything out and mentally review the day’s stock forecasts, but not this morning.

My mind fixates on Finley’s laugh. Did I thank her enough for letting me vent? Probably not.

Work is in a sleek high-rise that towers over an upscale district.

Polished marble floors greet me in the lobby, and a security guard nods.

I hurry to the elevator, nodding at a coworker who stands inside, sipping black coffee.

He attempts small talk about last night’s sports game, but I barely register his words, still half-lost in recollections of Finley defending me from that coyote date meltdown.

He leaves at the twentieth floor, and I ride up three more levels alone.

In my office, I settle behind a minimalistic desk with a glass surface.

I take a breath, open my laptop, and force myself to read the morning’s market trends, but the words blur.

My mind conjures an image of Finley rummaging through files at the agency, biting her lip.

Her frustration at not finding me a good match used to amuse me.

Now, it tugs at my chest because maybe I’d rather she stop trying altogether.

I eventually notice I’m rewriting the same email line multiple times. Shaking my head, I straighten my posture, determined to refocus. The hours drag before I shuffle into the morning briefing. My supervisor, a rigid man named Carl, outlines tasks for our biggest client’s portfolio.

“Michael, what’s the projected growth in emerging markets?” asks Carl, his tone sharp.

I open my mouth, but my head is blank. I scramble for an answer, rummaging for data I know by heart, but it’s tangled with memories of Finley’s grin.

He sets aside his notes and calls me out. “You missed a critical figure.” Not loudly, but with enough disappointment to sting. He expects more from the wolf with the fancy degree, who’s proven his acumen many times.

My face burns, and colleagues avert their eyes. A wave of shame floods me. I stammer an apology, correct myself, and vow to read the briefing more carefully.

Carl sighs, his expression stern. “Michael, I need you to focus. What’s the projected growth in emerging markets?”

I shuffle through my notes, my panic rising. “It’s...around four percent but fluctuating due to recent investments.”

Carl nods, though his patience is clearly thin. “Ensure you get the precise figures by the end of the day.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I’ll have them ready. Apologies for the oversight.”

The meeting continues, though my pride is bruised.

Colleagues glance at me with a mix of pity and frustration.

As I return to my desk, I tap a pencil against the keyboard, my mind swirling.

That scolding was deserved. I’m not paying attention because I can’t stop remembering how Finley’s hair gleamed in the fluorescent office light.

I exhale, switching tasks, but my mind remains stuck. Should I text her something unrelated to business just to see if she’s also dwelling on what almost flickered between us?

I pick up my phone. Her contact name stares back, a simple “Finley M. (Romance Expected).” My thumb hovers.

Is it unprofessional to text about nothing?

Probably. She might scold me for crossing boundaries, or she might reply with that witty banter I crave.

My heart pounds. I lock the phone, setting it face-down on the desk.

Not today. Maybe I should wait until I’m certain how I feel.

Around noon, my stomach growls, but the idea of enduring the corporate cafeteria’s crowd is unappealing.

I remain at my desk, nibbling a protein bar.

I’m half through a spreadsheet when my phone rings with a call from Aunt Eleanor.

Anxiety and fondness twist together. She’s my father’s older sister, but she’s the only one in the pack who actually respects my choices.

I never know if she’s calling with good news or a subtle warning.

I answer in a controlled tone, mindful that coworkers might overhear. Eleanor’s voice is breezy but direct. “Michael, dear, your father asked me to remind you about the pack gathering this weekend.”

My shoulders tense. I forgot about that. “Aunt Eleanor, he knows I hate those gatherings. Why is this mandatory?”

She sighs, a gentle sound. “He insists all family attend this one. It’ll probably be more talk about future leadership changes or scolding you for your human nonsense . I’m not sure, but I’d like you to come anyway. I miss you.”

A pang of guilt. I can never say no to Aunt Eleanor outright. “Fine. I’ll be there. Not promising I’ll stay long.”

We exchange small talk. She asks about my job.

My supervisor’s reprimand still stings, so I keep answers vague.

Then she gently probes about my dating life, which sets my heart racing.

I sense her genuine concern. She’s never judged me for wanting something less traditional.

I weigh telling her about Finley but hold back.

“I’ve tried a few dates. No luck,” I say.

She hums. “Keep an open mind. Or maybe an open heart, dear.”

The call ends with her warm goodbye, leaving me unsettled.

She’s the only reason I still show up to these gatherings.

The rest of the pack either pities me for my career or distrusts me for living in the city, and my father leads the negativity.

I rub my brow, shutting my eyes and contemplating a weekend of forced small talk, sideways glances, and muttered references to me being a “failed wolf.” Great.

I glance at Finley’s contact again, ignoring the flutter in my chest. Telling her about the dreaded pack gathering is tempting.

She’d likely commiserate and share stories of her own mother pushing her into endless alpha dates, but that’d only deepen our personal bond.

Am I ready for that? My heart says yes, but my head warns me to keep things simpler for now.

The rest of the day drags in slow increments.

I triple-check numbers for Carl, trying not to let daydreams sabotage me again.

By five, I’m drained. I skip invitations from coworkers to grab drinks, heading straight home.

The city’s hustle envelopes me, but I remain in a silent bubble of my own thoughts.

My apartment greets me with neat minimalism.

I toss my briefcase on the couch and slump into a leather armchair to stare at the ceiling.

The memory of Finley’s easy laughter keeps intruding, especially how she listened so attentively to my frustrations about not fitting into wolf society.

Even if it’s purely professional curiosity, it felt real.

An hour passes before I realize I haven’t moved.

My phone buzzes, and I pick it up, half-hoping it’s Finley.

Instead, it’s a spam text about used cars.

With a groan, I fling the phone aside. My father’s probably itching to corner me at the gathering with new demands about returning to the pack. Another wave of dread washes over me.

Finally, I force myself to stand, rummaging in the kitchen for a half-decent meal. I find leftover pasta and heat it in the microwave. The beep jolts me from reverie, and I settle at the small table, stabbing at lukewarm noodles. Usually, I’d watch the stock channel or read market analyses.

Tonight, I scroll through random social media feeds, half-checking if Romance Expected posted anything. They didn’t, or if they did, it’s overshadowed by a new success story featuring a flamboyant peacock shifter. I smirk. Red’s operation is something else.

Saturday dawns with a sense of foreboding since it’s the day of the mandatory pack gathering.

I throw clothes into a duffel bag, choosing casual wear that won’t draw too many remarks from the old-school wolves.

My phone’s silent with no new messages from Finley, which is for the best. There are also no warnings of an imminent asteroid collision or some other reason good enough to get me out of this, so I lock up the apartment and head down to the parking garage.