Page 11 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Cal

The walk from the restaurant starts perfectly. Rebecca tells me about her favorite disaster movies, laughing as she describes the scientific impossibilities in films where tornadoes somehow develop consciousness and volcanoes erupt with mathematical precision.

“The worst part is when they use scientific jargon that sounds impressive but means absolutely nothing.” She steps around a crack in the sidewalk with the unconscious grace of someone comfortable in her own body.

“Like, ‘We need to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow.’ What does that even mean?”

“About as much as ‘We need to enhance the tactical advantage of the strategic positioning.’” The comparison makes her laugh, and I relax in a way I haven’t in months. “Military consultants watch those movies and wonder if the writers have ever seen actual humans interact.”

Rebecca waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s nothing. Last week, I watched a movie where the scientist character saved the world by ‘recalibrating the DNA sequencer to emit healing frequencies.’ I nearly threw my remote at the screen.”

I pause mid-step. “Healing frequencies?”

“Apparently, DNA sequencers are now magical healing devices that emit sonic waves.” She shakes her head in mock despair and then brightens slightly. “The actress delivered the line with complete conviction too. I almost felt bad for her.”

“Speaking of scientific accuracy, what did you think of that disaster movie where they had to inject sharks with super-soldier serum to fight off the alien invasion?”

Rebecca’s face lights up with delighted recognition. “ Super Shark Squadron ? That movie was a masterpiece of terrible science.” She grins and gestures enthusiastically. “I have to admit, the scene where the lead shark gives a motivational speech to the other sharks was surprisingly well-acted.”

I nod solemnly. “I thought it was a documentary about Tuesday.”

She stops walking entirely and stares at me, her expression shifting from amusement to concern. “Calvin, please tell me you didn’t actually fight alien sharks.”

“No alien sharks, but I once had to deal with a situation involving genetically modified research animals and a very unethical biotech company.” I shrug at her horrified expression. “The world is stranger than most people realize.”

Rebecca tilts her head, curiosity overtaking her initial alarm. “What kind of genetically modified animals?”

“Let’s just say someone thought it would be clever to enhance the aggression levels of several predator species without considering the containment implications.”

Her eyes widen, and she takes a small step closer. “Please tell me this wasn’t in a populated area.”

“Small town in Montana. Population dropped from eight hundred to about fifty during the three days it took us to resolve the situation.”

“Dropped to fifty?” Rebecca’s voice rises in alarm, echoing off the nearby buildings. “Calvin, what happened to the other seven hundred and fifty people?”

“Evacuation. Very thorough, very rapid evacuation.” I pause, remembering the chaos of that particular operation. “Explaining to the local sheriff why we needed to evacuate an entire town because of enhanced wildlife was one of the more creative briefings I’ve ever given.”

She stares at me for a moment, processing this information with that same methodical focus she probably applies to research data. “That’s either fascinating or terrifying.”

“Definitely both.”

Rebecca resumes walking, but now she’s studying me with renewed interest. “No wonder you find disaster movies unrealistic. You’ve actually lived through scenarios that Hollywood can’t even imagine properly.”

“The real situations are usually more complicated and less dramatic than the movies. Nobody gives inspiring speeches while defusing bombs or fighting genetically enhanced predators.” I adjust our pace slightly, noting the way she processes information.

“Mostly, you just try to solve the problem without getting killed.”

She laughs. “That’s weirdly reassuring. I always wondered if real dangerous situations involved more dramatic one-liners.”

“Disappointingly few one-liners, but lots of radio chatter and technical problem-solving.”

She nods thoughtfully. “That actually makes sense. When I’m dealing with a crisis in the lab, I’m not delivering speeches about the power of science.” She gestures expressively. “I’m usually swearing at equipment and trying to prevent toxic spills.”

I turn to look at her with renewed interest. “What’s the worst lab crisis you’ve handled?”

“Last month, I had a containment failure in my tissue culture incubator.” Her expression grows serious as she explains. “Seventeen different cell lines were growing in conditions that could have created some very interesting cross-contamination.”

“Interesting how?”

Rebecca’s hands move expressively as she describes the situation. “The kind of interesting that could have resulted in cellular mutations with unpredictable characteristics. I spent fourteen hours straight decontaminating and re-establishing sterile cultures.”

“Fourteen hours straight?”

“Margo brought me coffee and emergency snacks every few hours.” She grins, looking slightly embarrassed. “She’s good at recognizing when I’m in crisis management mode.”

“What kind of emergency snacks?”

Her grin becomes almost sheepish. “Raw beef strips with fresh vegetables and fruit juice. Not gourmet but effective for sustained concentration.”

I nod approvingly. “That’s actually pretty tactical. High protein, quick energy, and easy to consume without stopping work.”

She gestures between us with obvious satisfaction. “See? Scientists and security consultants have more in common than people think.”

“Speaking of things we have in common, what’s your tolerance for spicy food?”

Her grin becomes almost predatory. “I once ate an entire plate of ghost pepper wings on a dare from my graduate advisor.” She stretches her arms dramatically. “Spent two hours crying and drinking milk, but I finished every wing.”

I whistle appreciatively. “Impressive. Most people can’t handle more than one or two ghost pepper wings.”

“Reptile shifter metabolism. We process capsaicin differently than humans.” She looks at me curiously, her head tilted in that way that suggests she’s formulating a hypothesis. “What about you?”

“I can eat habaneros like candy. Gila monster biology apparently includes enhanced tolerance for spicy compounds.”

Rebecca nods as if this confirms something she suspected. “That’s useful. Most of my dates complain when I order food that’s actually hot enough to taste.”

I shake my head in mock sympathy. “Most of my dates won’t even try anything spicier than black pepper.”

“Their loss.” She shrugs with the casual confidence of someone who’s never met a scientific topic she couldn’t master. “The endorphin response to capsaicin is one of the most efficient natural mood elevators available.”

I raise an eyebrow at the clinical way she delivers this information. “You sound like you’ve researched this scientifically.”

She shrugs again, this time with the casual air of someone who’s never met a topic she didn’t want to study. “I research everything scientifically. It’s a compulsion.”

For the first time in months, I’m not automatically cataloging escape routes or threat assessments. I’m just enjoying the company of a brilliant woman who finds my background interesting rather than disturbing.

That’s when my enhanced senses pick up something wrong.

The sound is subtle—a car engine idling longer than normal, and the particular quality of radio static that suggests surveillance equipment. My peripheral vision catches movement on the street that’s too deliberate for random pedestrians.

Every instinct I’ve developed over fifteen years of staying alive in dangerous situations starts screaming warnings. Someone is watching us, and they’re being professional about it.

I need to adjust our route without alarming Rebecca, which means maintaining normal conversation while implementing basic countersurveillance techniques. Simple enough, except my brain is now split between social interaction and tactical assessment.

“So,” Rebecca continues, apparently unaware of the sudden tension in my posture, “what specific applications do you think my research might have for enhancing recovery times in high-stress occupations like yours?”

The question requires thoughtful analysis of genetic therapy applications, but my attention is focused on the black SUV that’s been following us for the past two blocks. Professional surveillance, definitely.

“Well…” I casually steer us toward a more populated street. “The migratory patterns of Canadian geese actually demonstrate fascinating parallels to cellular regeneration cycles.”

Her stride falters slightly. “I’m sorry, what?”

The complete disconnect between her question and my answer hangs in the air like evidence of a mental breakdown. My brain, still trying to process surveillance protocols while maintaining romantic conversation, doubles down on the insanity.

“Canadian geese.” I nod enthusiastically while tracking the SUV’s repositioning in my peripheral vision. “Their navigation abilities during long-distance migration show remarkable similarity to the way cells coordinate repair processes in reptilian healing responses.”

Rebecca stops walking entirely and stares at me. “Calvin, are you feeling all right? Because geese navigation and cellular repair are completely unrelated biological processes.”

“Right, yes, of course they are.” I gesture vaguely, trying to look like someone making normal conversation rather than someone whose attention is split between his date and potential threats.

“I saw this very interesting documentary recently about avian genetics, and it got me thinking about evolutionary adaptations for enhanced performance under environmental stress.”