Page 1 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)

Jenna

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I stare at my own stiletto heel embedded in the drywall a few inches above my couch and exactly where my head was three minutes ago. The matching shoe is lying on the floor beside a shattered wine bottle and what’s left of my dignity.

My forehead throbs. I dab at the sting and come away with blood. That bottle was vintage something-or-other, brought by a man who called himself Ralph and claimed to be “between homes” while finalizing a very amicable divorce.

Apparently “between homes” means he still shares one with his wife, who stormed into my apartment not ten minutes ago and turned it into a combat zone before storming out.

One minute, we were about to uncork the wine and were flirting about travel plans, and the next, my front door slammed open and a blonde in yoga pants let loose like she was clearing a training course.

Ralph ran straight out the door without so much as a sorry.

She screeched about the wine and picked it up, throwing it against the coffee table.

The bottle shattered, sending shards of glass into my wall.

One scratched my face. The shoe came last, a clean overhand throw that would’ve decapitated me if I hadn’t ducked.

With a smirk, the blonde strolled out after that. Now I’ve got wine on my rug, glass in my couch and wall, blood on my temple, and a high heel sticking out of the drywall like modern art.

I lower myself onto the arm of the chair since the couch is a crime scene and stare at the wreckage. It’s overwhelming, and I don’t know where to begin with cleaning up. At least my forehead is only lightly bleeding when I check again, so I probably won’t die from this. Lucky me.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Thanks for the entertainment, honey. Next time, do your research. —Mrs. Davidson

I blink at the message, tightening my hand around the phone before loosening it again when I remember I can’t afford a new one.

I didn’t know. I never would’ve let him through the door if I’d known.

I’m a lot of things, but I don’t poach from the married shelf, especially not from women who can throw like that.

I delete the message and set the phone on a dry spot of the coffee table and mutter, “That’s one for the hall of fame.” Step one of the master plan—find a rich man with taste and bad judgment—has officially imploded.

Again.

The eviction notice crinkles under my elbow as I shift position.

It says Final Notice. I don’t have much time to come up with rent money or Mr. Kowalski gets to legally toss my stuff onto the sidewalk.

I’ve been here before but never with only twenty-three dollars in my checking account and a maxed-out credit card.

My stomach growls, and I glare at the last packet of ramen on my kitchen counter. Chicken flavor again. Ah, the glamorous life of a failed gold digger.

A soft knock interrupts my pity party. Through the peephole, I spot Mr. Kowalski holding another piece of paper.

His weathered face looks genuinely apologetic as he slides it under my door with a resigned shrug.

The man’s been my landlord for two years.

He understands my situation better than anyone.

I don’t bother reading the notice. More of the same, probably with additional late fees and legal jargon designed to make me miserable about my life choices.

Before starting the ramen, I go to the bathroom.

The mirror above my sink reflects someone I barely recognize.

My hair is tangled from stress-grooming, my amber eyes are red-rimmed from crying, and soon a small bandage covers the cut on my forehead.

My parents would take one look at me and launch into their favorite lecture about fox shifters and our “naturally destructive tendencies.”

“This is what happens when you chase after things that aren’t meant for you, Jenna,” I mutter in my mother’s disapproving tone. “Fox shifters are meant to be clever, not greedy.”

Clever wasn’t paying my bills. Clever wasn’t getting me out of this cramped apartment in the worst part of town. Clever definitely wasn’t landing me a man who could give me the life I deserved.

I practice my most vulnerable expression in the mirror. Wide eyes, trembling lower lip, and just a hint of desperation without looking completely pathetic. There’s a fine line between damsel in distress and hot mess, and I’ve been walking it for years.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Chloe from next door.

Coffee later? You look like you need it.

I text back: Broke. Rain check?

My treat. Trouble in paradise?

If only she knew paradise involved a married man and flying footwear. Chloe’s the friend who asks just enough questions to show she cares but never enough to make me feel cornered. It’s one of the reasons I actually like her.

Thanks. Maybe tomorrow.

I need to figure out my next move before I can face her concerned rabbit shifter energy. Chloe means well, but her solution to every problem involves herbal tea and positive thinking. My problems require more aggressive intervention.

The business card for Romance Expected Dating Service falls out of my jacket pocket when I reach for my wallet to count my pathetic remaining funds.

I picked it up last week at the coffee shop where Chloe works part time.

The woman behind me in line was gushing to her friend about how Red had matched her with a tiger shifter who owned three restaurants.

Three restaurants. That’s a problem I need solving.

Her friend had “accidentally” left the card on the counter, so I’d swooped by and picked it up on my way out the door after finishing my cheap Americano.

I flip over the card again now. Specialized matchmaking for unique shifters who don’t fit traditional molds. The tagline makes me snort. If fox shifters don’t fit traditional molds, I’m the poster child for nonconformity. What have I got to lose? A quick call yields me an immediate appointment.

The walk to Romance Expected takes twenty minutes through downtown traffic, because no way can I afford a cab.

I practice my sob story the entire way, perfecting the right balance of vulnerability and strength.

My fox instincts make it difficult to appear genuinely helpless rather than calculating, but I’ve had years of practice.

The building’s wedged between a nail salon and a ramen shop, which seems like the universe mocking my current diet. A modest sign in swirling script beckons from the glass door. I climb the narrow stairs, trying to calm the flutter in my stomach. This has to work. I’m running out of options.

The waiting room surprises me with its welcomeness.

The walls are painted a cheerful red, adorned with floral patterns, while a small table holds a neat stack of magazines about shifter culture and relationships.

A tall shelf displays Polaroid photos of smiling couples in cheap but colorful heart-decorated frames.

Some look like awkward prom pictures, but they’re all genuinely happy.

I study the photos while waiting. A massive bear shifter stands with his arms wrapped around a tiny hummingbird shifter.

A serious-looking wolf woman poses next to a grinning golden retriever shifter.

Each couple appears mismatched by traditional standards, yet they exude a sense of contentment and joy.

Maybe there’s hope for me after all.

“Hello, there. Give me just a second.”

The voice comes from behind the front desk before a woman emerges with a wide smile.

She’s about my height with vibrant auburn hair styled in a sleek bob.

The subtle markings around her eyes remind me of red panda coloring, and her bold red kaftan accentuates both the room’s color theme and her curvy frame.

“You must be here about our services. I’m Regina Carrington, but everyone calls me Red.”

Her smile seems genuine. “I’m Jenna Johnson.” I smooth my jacket nervously. “I called earlier about a consultation?”

“Of course. Let’s chat in my office.”

I follow her down a short hallway, automatically cataloging escape routes and noting the security camera in the corner.

Just a precaution from my years of…experiences.

Her office explodes with color. A shelf behind her desk is overflowing with red panda figurines along with a bulletin board covered in more successful match photos labeled with names and dates.

“Have a seat.” She gestures to a comfortable armchair. The scent of vanilla and something faintly fruity wafts around me, likely her perfume. “So, tell me what brings you to Romance Expected.”

I settle into the chair and launch into my prepared speech. “I’m having trouble finding compatible partners through traditional dating methods. I’ve heard wonderful things about your success with unusual shifters, and I thought—”

“Hold up.” Red raises a hand, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let’s skip the rehearsed part and talk about what you really want.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’ve been practicing that speech. Your scent shifted when you started talking, and your body language is completely different from when you walked in.” She leans back in her chair. “Fox shifter, right? You’re reading me just as hard as I’m reading you.”

My judiciously constructed mask crumbles. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who spends all day with shifters trying to be someone they’re not.” Her expression softens. “Let’s try again. What do you really want from a relationship?”

The honest answer sits in my throat like a stone.

Financial security. A man who can take care of me so I never have to worry about eviction notices or ramen dinners again.

Someone rich enough that I never have to go back to my parents and acknowledge they were right about my “unrealistic expectations.”