Page 24 of Howling Mad
“I’m Bea,” she says, trembling.“Just moved here.I lost my phone and my bus pass.They offered help but then turned on me.”
I offer a hand, helping her up.“We’ll get you a ride.”
Finley calls a rideshare, her tone calm and efficient.We guide Bea to a brighter corner, waiting under a lamppost.She clutches her purse, still shaken.“You didn’t have to risk yourselves,” she says, her eyes glistening.
The car pulls up, and Bea climbs in, thanking us profusely.We watch her go and then turn toward Finley’s apartment.My side throbs, but her arm brushing mine distracts me.I’ll shift to heal it once I’m home.At her building, she faces me, the stoop’s chipped paint catching the light.“Thanks for helping Bea.”
“You were right there, too,” I say, smiling.
“Team effort,” she says, her grin soft.
I notice a bruise forming on her arm.“You okay?That bear shook you hard.”
She rubs it, shrugging.“I’ll live.Ego’s fine, at least.”
Her eyes catch my torn shirt, blood seeping.“You’re hurt.”
“Just a scratch,” I say, though it stings.
She steps closer, worried.“You sure?”
“Definitely,” I say.
She slips inside, hesitating before shutting her door.“Good night, Michael.”
“Night,” I say, lingering as the door closes.Hope surges through me, and I’m buzzing with possibility.
Chapter 9
Finley
IclutchMichael’sfileto my chest, pretending to organize as Red watches me from across the office with that knowing smirk of hers.She’s been eyeing me all morning with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.Ever since the cupid topiary fiasco and our moonlit conversation in the park, I’ve been attempting—and failing—to maintain a veneer of professional detachment.My fingertips linger too long on his intake forms, I reread his notes when I should be processing new clients, and I’ve memorized his coffee order, for moon’s sake.
“Ready for lunch?”Red appears at my desk, dangling her purse with the casual air of someone who absolutely knows what’s going on.
I snap the folder closed.“Definitely.Starving.”My stomach betrays me with a growl that sounds suspiciously like Michael’s name.
We head to Shifter’s Deli, a hole-in-the-wall spot where the owner—a badger shifter with impeccable taste in sourdough—keeps a private back room for “those with special dietary considerations.”Translation—shifters who might accidentally sprout fur mid-sandwich.I slide into our usual booth, immediately hiding behind my menu, despite knowing I’ll order the same turkey club I always do.
Red plucks the laminated shield from my hands.“So.Are we going to discuss your obsession with Michael Thornton’s file, or shall I pretend not to notice you daydreaming about him every seventeen minutes?”
I sputter into my water glass.“I don’t—that’s not—seventeen minutes seems weirdly specific.”
“I timed you.”She taps her watch with a glossy red nail.“Your pheromones are making the ficus plant in the corner grow three inches this week alone.”
My cheeks burn hotter than a forest fire.“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to everyone with functioning nostrils.”Red’s smile softens as she leans forward.“Which is why I think it’s time I tell you something.”
The waitress, a harried-looking lizard shifter whose tongue occasionally darts out to taste the air, takes our orders, giving me a brief reprieve from Red’s interrogation.Once she leaves, Red folds her napkin into a perfect triangle, smoothing the edges with unusual care.
“I started Romance Expected after seven consecutive dates where I was calledadorablelike I was a stuffed animal rather than a potential mate.”Her typically chipper voice drops an octave.“The eighth one actually brought bamboo shoots as a gift and then acted surprised when I didn’t want to eat them raw in the middle of a five-star restaurant.”
I wince.“That’s awful.”
“It was demoralizing.Traditional shifter circles have these rigid expectations.Wolves mate with wolves, bears with bears, and small, ‘quirky’ species...”She makes air quotes.“We’re novelties, not viable partners.Too tiny, too weird, or not predatory enough.”
“That’s wildly unfair.You’re amazing.”
