Page 10 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

The water is cold, the soap is industrial-strength, and the entire process feels like being decontaminated after a nuclear incident, but it works.

Ten minutes later, I emerge clean, if slightly abraded by the aggressive cleaning process.

I’d planned to go home and prepare carefully for this date, maybe even do something with my hair that doesn’t involve laboratory chemicals.

Instead, I’m getting ready in a lab bathroom using supplies designed for hazmat situations.

“Dr. L, you look great,” she says as I attempt to tame my hair using the mirror above the emergency wash station. “Very professional scientist meets attractive woman about town.”

“I smell like industrial soap and sulfur compounds.”

“You smell like someone who’s dedicated to her work. Calvin will probably find that attractive.”

The drive to Scales and Tails takes longer than expected thanks to traffic and my complete inability to remember where I put my car keys after the…incident. By the time I arrive, I’m fifteen minutes late and still flustered from the afternoon’s disasters.

The restaurant’s exterior suggests someone who understands shifter psychology—tinted windows for privacy, wide entrance doors to accommodate unexpected size changes, and what appears to be reinforced construction.

A discreet sign by the door indicates “Shifter Accommodations Available,” which is both reassuring and slightly ominous.

Inside, the lighting is warm but not harsh, the tables are spaced far enough apart for private conversations, and the floor has drain systems that suggest they’re prepared for unexpected shifting incidents.

A hostess with distinctly feline features guides me toward a corner table, where Calvin is already waiting.

He stands as I approach, moving with the kind of controlled grace that suggests military training, and I notice he’s positioned himself at a table with clear sight lines to all entrances.

The tactical awareness should probably be concerning, but instead, it’s oddly comforting.

Here’s someone who pays attention to his environment and plans for contingencies.

“Dr. Lawson, you look lovely.” His smile seems genuine rather than polite. “I was starting to worry you’d changed your mind.”

“Rebecca, please, and I’m sorry I’m late. I had a minor laboratory incident involving chemicals and emergency decontamination procedures.”

Calvin’s expression shifts to something that might be concern. “Are you injured?”

“Only my dignity—and possibly some irreplaceable tissue samples that are now decorating the lab floor.” I settle into my chair, grateful for furniture that feels solid enough to handle unexpected shifter biology. “How long have you been waiting?”

“About forty-five minutes. I arrived early to… assess the situation.”

The careful way he phrases this suggests there’s more to the story, but I appreciate his honesty about being early rather than making excuses about traffic.

The menu offers an impressive variety of options designed for shifter dietary needs—high-protein selections, raw preparations, and dishes that can be eaten with claws if necessary. It’s exactly the kind of practical consideration that makes shifter-friendly establishments worth the extra effort.

“So,” I say, studying the offerings, “Red mentioned you do security consulting. That sounds fascinating and slightly mysterious.”

His expression becomes carefully neutral. “I spent eight years in Special Forces and then transitioned to private security work. I’m currently trying to figure out how to apply those skills in less… explosive situations.”

“Less explosive how?”

“Fewer guns, fewer hostile governments, and fewer situations where success is measured by who’s still breathing at the end.” He meets my gaze directly, clearly watching for my reaction. “It’s a significant career transition.”

Most people would probably be alarmed by such casual mentions of violence, but I nod thoughtfully. “That sounds like moving from defensive research to constructive research. There’s something satisfying about creation that destruction can’t match.”

Calvin’s surprise is obvious. “You’re not concerned about my background?”

“Should I be? You’re not currently pointing weapons at anyone, and you seem committed to building rather than destroying.” I shrug. “Besides, my research focuses on healing and regeneration. I appreciate the value of people who’ve dedicated their lives to protecting others.”

The tension in his shoulders visibly relaxes. “Most people find my work history… concerning.”

“Most people haven’t spent their careers studying violence at the cellular level. Controlled violence in service of protection is different from violence for its own sake.” I lean forward, genuinely curious. “What’s driving the career change?”

“I want to build something lasting instead of just solving immediate problems. I’m tired of measuring my value by my capacity for violence.”

The honesty in his voice is refreshing after months of men who dance around their actual motivations. “What kind of something?”

He hesitates before shrugging. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Maybe something that uses my tactical skills for environmental protection or humanitarian work. Maybe something completely different.”

Our conversation flows with surprising ease as we order dinner and start sharing stories about our respective career challenges.

Calvin asks intelligent questions about my research, showing genuine interest when I describe the public aspects of my work on regenerative healing.

I’m careful not to mention the classified genetic sequencing that makes the process truly revolutionary, but there’s enough published research to keep the conversation fascinating.

“So, you’re essentially studying how reptilian shifters heal faster than other species?” Calvin asks, cutting into his steak with the precision of someone who’s comfortable with knives, at least in his hands.

“Among other things. The applications for trauma medicine could be extraordinary if we can identify the specific genetic markers responsible for accelerated cellular repair.” I pause, realizing I’m getting into lecture mode. “Sorry, I tend to get carried away when I talk about my work.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing to hear someone talk about their career with genuine passion.”

“You don’t find it boring?”

“Dr. Lawson—Rebecca—I’ve spent the last fifteen years in situations where advanced medical knowledge would have saved lives. Your research could prevent the kind of permanent damage I’ve seen too many good people suffer.” Calvin’s expression grows serious. “What you’re doing matters.”

His words mean more than I’d expect. Here’s someone who’s seen the practical applications of medical research in high-stakes situations and understands exactly why my work is important. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I’m curious about something,” he says. “Red mentioned you’ve had some challenging dating experiences. Mind if I ask what went wrong?”

I consider how much honesty this situation requires. “Most men seem to want a successful woman in theory but find the reality intimidating. They like the idea of dating a scientist until they realize I’m actually passionate about science.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they want someone who plays a brilliant woman on television, not someone who actually lives and breathes research.” I take a sip of wine, noting the excellent vintage pairs well with both the food and the conversation.

“My last boyfriend suggested I ‘tone down my ambition’ if I wanted to find a mate.” I manage a brittle smile.

“Apparently, my dedication to my career was intimidating to potential partners. He recommended I take up cooking or some other traditionally feminine hobby to seem more approachable.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing printable, but I may have accidentally shifted and destroyed his ugly jacket in the process, and some lab paraphernalia.”

Calvin’s grin transforms his entire face. “What kind?”

“A rack of test tubes, a filing cabinet, and my framed PhD certificate, which ended up balanced on my iguana’s head like a graduation cap.”

“I remember seeing his picture, but I don’t recall his name if Red said it.”

I’m touched he remembers that from my dating profile photos.

“Galileo. He’s three feet long and has witnessed more relationship disasters than any reptile in recorded history, I’m sure.

His only compensation is an occasional serving of extra blueberries.

He’d eat them all the time, but they don’t have calcium, and I don’t want him to get metabolic bone disease. ”

“He must have a tough life,” he says with mock sympathy before laughing—a genuine sound that immediately puts me at ease.

“I once spent four days in a jungle observation post eating nothing but military rations and questionable berries. Galileo probably has better dining options than I did for most of my twenties.”

“What’s the longest you’ve gone without leaving a work situation?”

“Seventy-two hours in a sniper’s nest during a hostage situation. Three days of energy bars, rainwater, and trying not to move enough to compromise my position.” Calvin shrugs like this is perfectly normal. “What about you?”

I stifle the urge to ask how he handled more personal/practical matters, figuring it’s not the best topic over dinner. “I spent four days without leaving my lab during a crucial experiment phase. I survived on vending machine peanut butter cups, terrible coffee, and determination.”

“Peanut butter cups?”

“They’re scientifically optimal for sustained energy during research marathons. High protein, enough sugar for brain function, and individually wrapped for sterile handling.” I speak matter-of-factly before grinning.

Calvin’s smile grows wider. “That might be the most practical approach to nutrition I’ve ever heard.”

Dessert arrives as a decadent chocolate creation that immediately captures my full attention. The presentation is artistically perfect, the aroma is intoxicating, and the first bite triggers an involuntary sound of appreciation that probably shouldn’t be made in public.

The excitement of excellent chocolate combined with phase two approval and Calvin’s engaging conversation causes my emotional state to shift beyond my conscious control.

I feel the familiar tingling in my forearms as scales begin to emerge, creating an iridescent pattern that catches the restaurant’s lighting.

Most men would be horrified. Trenton certainly was when I shifted during our arguments, but Calvin leans forward with obvious interest, studying the scale pattern with the kind of appreciation usually reserved for works of art.

“That’s beautiful,” he says simply. “The pattern is similar to my own markings but much more elegant.”

I look down at my arms, seeing the green-black scales that have appeared along my forearms. “It happens when I’m excited or happy. Usually, it’s embarrassing.”

“Why embarrassing?”

“Most people find shifting unsettling, especially when it’s triggered by positive emotions rather than threat responses.”

Calvin rolls up his sleeves, revealing the distinctive orange-black patterning of Gila monster coloration along his own forearms. “I have my own embarrassing shift story if it makes you feel better.”

“Oh, this should be good.”

“I was doing a corporate security assessment for a major pharmaceutical company. I was conducting a threat evaluation meeting with their executive board in a very serious, very professional environment.” His expression suggests this is a painful memory.

“I was explaining potential vulnerabilities in their facility when I started shedding. Not dramatically, just small patches of skin flaking off onto their mahogany conference table, but…”

“Oh no.”

“It gets worse. By the end of the meeting, enough shed skin was scattered around that the CEO asked if I’d brought some kind of biological sample to demonstrate security risks.

I spent twenty minutes explaining to very confused executives that their conference room hadn’t been contaminated. I was just molting.”

I start laughing at the mental image. “Did you get the contract?”

“Actually, yes. Turns out the client was a bear shifter, who appreciated my dedication to completing the presentation despite obvious biological distraction.”

“That’s oddly encouraging.”

He half-shrugs. “The point is, we both have professional lives that occasionally intersect with our shifter biology in awkward ways. It’s not a character flaw. It’s just part of who we are.”

The casual acceptance in his voice is something I’ve never experienced from a romantic prospect.

Every other man I’ve dated has treated my shifting as either a fascinating novelty or a problem to be managed.

Calvin treats it as simply another aspect of my personality, no more remarkable than my career or my taste in wine.

As we leave the restaurant, Calvin insists on walking me back toward my car, which is parked a few blocks away in the closest parking space I could find in my mad dash not to be even later.

The evening air is cool but not uncomfortable, perfect for the kind of leisurely stroll that extends a good evening.

“I need to check on an experiment. I know it’s probably weird to end a date by going to the lab, but I have cultures that need monitoring.”

“Not weird at all. Dedication to your work is one of the things I find most attractive about you.”

The simple honesty of his statement stops me in my tracks. “Really?”

“Rebecca, you’re brilliant, passionate about something that matters, and completely committed to excellence in everything you do.” Calvin’s voice carries the kind of sincerity that’s impossible to fake. “Why would I find that anything other than attractive?”

As we resume walking, I realize this is the first date where I haven’t once had to apologize for my crocodile nature, my scientific obsessions, or my tendency to prioritize research over social conventions.

For the first time in my dating history, I’m with someone who appreciates exactly who I am rather than who I might become if I changed enough to suit their preferences.

It’s the most hopeful I’ve felt about romance in years.