Page 10 of Howling Mad
Aweeklater,Michaelcalls the office.I answer on the first ring, trying not to sound too eager when I see his name on the caller ID.“This is Finley Morgan.”
“Finley?It’s Michael.”
“How did it go?”I ask, already knowing from his tone that it wasn’t good.
He sighs.“Let’s just say, Sasha and I have different views on what it means to be a wolf.She called medomesticatedwhen I mentioned my apartment in the financial district.”
“Oh, no.”I wince.“What else happened?”
“She spent the first twenty minutes lecturing me on corporate greed destroying habitats and the second twenty minutes suggesting I was betraying my species by wearing a tie.”His voice holds a mix of frustration and amusement.“When I didn’t growl at the waiter for bringing the wrong appetizer, she accused me of beingunnaturally passive.”
I cover my face with my hand, mortified.“I’m so sorry.I should have realized she’d be too—”
“Wild?”he suggests, and I can hear a smile in his voice.“It’s not your fault.You were trying something different.”
I bite my lip, thinking.“Actually, there is another person I had in mind.She’s a timber wolf shifter named Veronica, who works as an art curator.She’s refined and looking for the same, so she might be more compatible with you.”
There’s a pause.“She sounds more well-suited on paper.”
“Would you be willing to try again?”
He hesitates.“I suppose, though I’m starting to wonder if I’m simply not cut out for the dating pool Romance Expected offers.”
“Don’t give up yet,” I say quickly, surprising myself with my vehemence.“Sometimes, it takes a few misses to find the right match.”
“All right,” he says, sounding slightly more optimistic.“Set it up, but if she starts lecturing me about embracing my inner wolf, I’m walking out.”
I laugh.“Deal.No wolf lectures.I promise.”
After hanging up, I pull Veronica’s file, hoping this match will be better.As I review her information, a strange thought crosses my mind.What if none of these women are right for Michael because I’m subconsciously sabotaging the matches?
I dismiss the idea immediately.That would be unprofessional and ridiculous.I’m just doing my job, finding the best possible match for my client, even if his smile does make my heart beat a little faster.
Chapter 4
Michael
I’mstandingbeforemyfloor-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 maître 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.”
