Page 15 of Howling Mad
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 mehopes.Maybe he’ll find the right person eventually, but for tonight, I can pretend that might be me.
Chapter 6
Michael
Iwakeupearlierthan 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 actuallyseesme.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.
