Page 1 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Becci

“You know, Rebecca, if you really want to settle down someday, you might consider toning down the whole… ambitious scientist thing.”

“I’m sorry, what?” The words come out flatter than I intend, but Trenton doesn’t seem to notice the warning signs.

He waves a dismissive hand toward my workstation, where I’ve spent the last six months developing breakthrough research on regenerative medicine using reptilian shifter genetics.

“This whole obsession with your research. It’s admirable, really, but men don’t want to feel intimidated by their partner’s career. ”

The coffee mug makes a sharp clink as I set it down harder than necessary. “Intimidated.”

“Exactly.” He nods enthusiastically, completely missing the danger into which he’s wandering.

“I mean, look at you. You’re brilliant, obviously, but you spend more time with those genetic samples than you do with actual people.

When was the last time you went to dinner without checking your phone for lab results? ”

Heat crawls up my neck. My hands start to tingle in that familiar way that means I need to get somewhere private, fast. “Trenton, maybe we should—”

“I’m just saying, if you want a real relationship, you need to make some compromises.

Show a man you can be nurturing, not just…

analytical.” He gestures vaguely at my computer screen, which displays complex genetic sequencing data that took me three years to perfect.

“Maybe take up cooking or something more traditionally feminine.”

The tingling in my hands intensifies. My coffee tastes like acid. “More traditionally feminine.”

“Right! Like Daria in accounting. She bakes cookies for the department meetings and asks thoughtful questions about everyone’s weekend plans. She’s engaged now, you know. Beautiful wedding planned for spring.”

That’s when I feel it happening. The familiar heat spreading through my fingers, the subtle lengthening, the emergence of something definitely not human. I look down to see my perfectly manicured nails extending into razor-sharp claws, each one gleaming under the lab lights.

“I think you should stop talking.” My voice comes out with a slight hiss that I pray he doesn’t notice.

But Trenton, blessed with the selective hearing of a man who’s convinced he’s being helpful, continues his dissertation on my life’s failings.

“I’m not trying to be harsh, Rebecca. I care about you, but you can’t expect to find a mate if you’re more interested in your reptile genes than in building a home. ”

The word “mate” does it. Something primal and furious surges through me, and suddenly, my hands aren’t just clawed. They’re fully shifted into their crocodile form, complete with scales that shimmer green-black under the fluorescent lights. “ Trenton !”

This time, he notices. His face goes pale as I accidentally gesture toward him, my clawed hands shredding through my pristine lab coat like tissue paper. The sound is satisfying in a way that probably says terrible things about my mental state.

“Rebecca, what—your hands—”

I make the mistake of turning toward him, and my claws catch his precious tweed jacket. The leather elbow patches tear with a sound like ripping canvas, and Trenton stumbles backward, his eyes wide with what I can only describe as abject terror.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.” His voice cracks on the last word. “You’re more crocodile than woman.”

The unfairness of that statement, considering he knew exactly what I was when we started dating, sends another wave of fury through me.

I step forward, fully intending to give him a piece of my mind about shifter prejudice and relationship dynamics, but my shifted hands knock into the rack of test tubes I’d prepared for today’s experiments.

Twenty-seven glass tubes filled with various chemical compounds crash to the floor in a symphony of breaking glass and chemical reactions. Bright purple foam erupts from the mixture followed by a hiss of yellow smoke that smells distinctly of sulfur and regret.

Trenton shrieks—actually shrieks—and bolts toward the door.

In his panic, he crashes into my filing cabinet, sending papers flying and knocking over my framed PhD certificate from MIT.

The heavy frame tumbles through the air and lands with perfect precision on top of my pet iguana Galileo’s terrarium, balancing there like the world’s most expensive graduation cap.

“Trenton, wait…”

He’s already fleeing down the hallway, his torn jacket flapping behind him like the wings of some deeply embarrassed academic bird.

I hear him shouting something about “calling HR” and “unnatural behavior,” but his voice fades as he apparently decides the entire building isn’t far enough away from my terrible crocodile energy.

I stand in the wreckage of my morning, purple foam creeping across the floor toward my shoes, and slowly shift my hands back to human form. The transformation always takes more effort when I’m angry, like my reptile side doesn’t want to retreat when it feels threatened.

Galileo, my three-foot iguana who’s witnessed more relationship disasters than any reptile should, tilts his head to peer at me from under my diploma. If iguanas could look judgmental, he’d be winning awards.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, grabbing paper towels to start cleaning up the chemical foam. “You heard what he said about toning down my ambition.”

Galileo just blinks his ancient-looking eyes and settles more comfortably under his accidental mortarboard, apparently deciding that if he’s going to witness my romantic failures, he might as well look scholarly doing it.

The purple foam hisses against the paper towels, creating a tie-dye effect that would be pretty under different circumstances.

My lab coat hangs in shreds, and I notice a distinct claw-shaped tear in my favorite pencil skirt.

The air still smells like sulfur and Trenton’s fear-sweat, which is somehow worse than the chemical smoke.

My phone buzzes with a text message, and I have the wild hope that Trenton has come to his senses and wants to apologize. Instead, it’s a message from Dr. Laurent, the department head: “Dr. Lawson, maintenance has received noise complaints from your lab. Please see me before noon.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

I spend the next hour cleaning up my accidental science fair volcano and trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left.

Bits of my torn lab coat go in the trash along with my hopes of having a normal morning.

By the time I’ve restored some semblance of order, my research assistant arrives for her shift.

Margo Compton bounces through the door with her usual energy, her black hair styled in a trendy bob that somehow makes her look both professional and ready to cause trouble.

She’s carrying two coffee cups and wearing a vintage band T-shirt under her lab coat—a look that shouldn’t work in an academic setting but absolutely does on her.

“Morning, Dr. L! I brought you the good stuff from that place down the…” She stops mid-sentence, taking in the lingering smell of chemicals and the suspicious scorch mark on the floor, where the foam finally dissolved. “Okay, what happened? And please tell me it wasn’t another Trenton incident.”

I accept the coffee gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma to clear the sulfur smell from my nostrils. “Trenton suggested I tone down my ambition if I want to find a mate.”

Her dark eyes narrow dangerously. “He said what now?”

“Oh, it gets better. Apparently, I should take up cooking to be more traditionally feminine. Like Daria in accounting.”

“Daria who asks everyone about their weekend plans like she’s conducting a survey for the Department of Forced Social Interaction?”

“That’s the one. Apparently, she’s the gold standard for relationship success because she bakes cookies.”

Margo sets down her own coffee with deliberate care. “Please tell me you didn’t just smile and nod while he said this.”

I gesture vaguely at the scorch mark and the lingering smell of disaster. “I may have shifted and accidentally destroyed some equipment.”

“Accidentally?”

“The shifting was accidental. The equipment destruction was… collateral damage.”

Margo grins, the kind of expression that usually means she’s about to say something that will either make my day or get us both in trouble. “Good. What did he do?”

“Ran away screaming something about calling HR and unnatural behavior.”

“Even better.” She pulls out her phone and starts typing rapidly. “I’m blocking his number from the lab phone and marking all his emails as spam.”

“Margo, you can’t—”

“Dr. L, the man insulted your life’s work and suggested you turn into a 1950s housewife to make him more comfortable. I’m not just blocking his number. I’m putting his photo in the breakroom with a warning label.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m protective. There’s a difference.” She tucks away her phone and gives me a serious look. “But real talk? This is the fourth guy this year who’s had some variation of this conversation with you.”

My stomach drops. “It hasn’t been four—”

“January was Kevin, who wanted you to ‘dial back the whole scientist thing’ for his family dinner. March was David, who said your research was ‘too intense’ for casual conversation. June was that photographer—”

“Thomas.”

“—who said you needed to ‘embrace your feminine side’ instead of talking about genetic sequencing on dates, and now Trenton.” Margo counts them off on her fingers like she’s presenting evidence in court. “Dr. L, I’m starting to think the problem isn’t your ambition.”

I want to argue, but the evidence is pretty damning. Four relationships, four variations of the same conversation, and four men who apparently thought dating a brilliant scientist would be fun right up until they realized I’m actually, you know, brilliant.

“Maybe I am too intense,” I say, though the words sound wrong.