Page 14 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Becci

Margo arrives at the lab the next morning carrying two coffee cups and wearing an expression of barely contained curiosity that suggests she’s been planning this interrogation since I texted her last night.

“Spill everything.” She sets the larger coffee cup in front of me with the ceremonial gravity of someone presenting evidence. “And I mean everything. How was the date with Mr. Security Consultant?”

I gratefully accept the coffee that’s become essential to my morning functioning. “It was… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Margo perches on the edge of my desk, clearly prepared to extract every detail. “Good complicated or bad complicated?”

I find myself echoing Calvin. “Definitely both.” I take a sip of coffee and try to organize the evening’s events into something resembling coherent narrative. “He’s intelligent, funny, genuinely interested in my work, and completely paranoid.”

Margo’s eyebrows rise with obvious delight. “Paranoid how?”

“He spent twenty minutes giving me a lecture about Canadian goose migration patterns that made absolutely no scientific sense and then randomly kissed me against a wall because he thought we were being followed by a suspicious SUV.”

“Wait, back up.” Margo holds up her hands like she’s stopping traffic. “He kissed you? How was it?”

Heat rises in my cheeks as I remember the unexpected electricity of that kiss. “Actually fantastic, despite the circumstances and the fact I accidentally bit him.”

“You bit him?”

“Partial shift. Surprise trigger.” I touch my mouth reflexively, remembering the taste of his blood on my lips. “He was very understanding about it, which was either incredibly sweet or evidence he’s dealt with shifter biology before.”

Margo grins with obvious satisfaction. “So, we have good conversation, shared interests, fantastic kissing, and he’s not fazed by your crocodile nature. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is he’s convinced someone was conducting professional surveillance on us during our romantic dinner.” I gesture emphatically with my coffee cup. “He gave me security advice that sounded like it came from a spy thriller and suggested I vary my routes home to avoid being followed.”

“Maybe he’s actually a spy.”

The suggestion is so ridiculous that I nearly choke on my coffee. “Margo, he’s a security consultant, not James Bond.”

“But what if he is?” Her eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm she usually reserves for particularly juicy scientific theory. “Think about it—mysterious background, international travel, tactical training, and enhanced threat awareness. That’s classic spy behavior.”

“That’s classic paranoid behavior.”

“Or,” Margo continues, clearly warming to her theme, “he’s part of some secret reptile shifter government agency that monitors threats to valuable research scientists.”

I stare at her. “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”

“Is it? Dr. L, your research could revolutionize medicine.” She jumps off my desk and starts pacing with the kind of manic energy that usually precedes her most creative projects.

“What if government agencies are specifically tasked with protecting shifter scientists whose work has national security implications?”

“Now you’re just making things up.”

Margo gestures dramatically, clearly enjoying herself.

“Picture this. Calvin works for some ultra-secret organization, maybe called something like the Department of Reptilian Affairs or the Bureau of Shifter Sciences. His mission is to protect brilliant researchers like you from foreign agents trying to steal genetic secrets.”

“The Department of Reptilian Affairs?”

“It could be a real thing. Maybe they recruited him specifically because his Gila monster background makes him perfect for covert operations in desert environments.” Her imagination is clearly running wild. “He’s probably got a code name like Lizard Man or Agent Scales.”

Despite myself, I laugh at the absurd mental image. “Agent Scales?”

“Who would suspect a reptile shifter of being a government operative? It’s the perfect cover.” She crosses her arms with obvious satisfaction. “Plus, his military background gives him all the necessary skills for protecting valuable assets like you.”

“You’ve been watching too many action movies.”

“Have I? Or have I identified the obvious explanation for why a highly trained security consultant with enhanced senses just happened to detect professional surveillance during your first date?” She raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Coincidences like that don’t exist in real life.”

“The coincidence is that I went on a date with someone whose military background makes him hypersensitive to potential threats.” I shake my head at her increasingly elaborate theories. “Calvin isn’t a secret agent. He’s just a guy trying to transition from high-risk work to civilian life.”

“If you say so.” She doesn’t look convinced. “I still think there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“There’s definitely more to him than meets the eye. The question is whether it’s classified government work or just really comprehensive paranoia.”

She settles back onto the edge of my desk, clearly not finished with her interrogation. “Okay, but what was he like? I mean, aside from the spy stuff and the goose lectures.”

“He actually listened when I talked about my research, asked intelligent questions, and didn’t try to mansplain cellular biology to me.” I smile at the memory. “He told me about some of his security work. Apparently, he once had to evacuate an entire town because of genetically modified animals.”

“See? Spy stuff.”

“Military contractor stuff. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Margo grins mischievously. “Did he mention any code names?”

I sigh in exasperation. “His name is Calvin. That’s probably not a code name.”

She grins. “Agent Calvin has a nice ring to it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m thorough. What else did you talk about?”

“Disaster movies with terrible science, spicy food tolerance, and the fact that we both have weird professional lives that occasionally interfere with normal social interactions.” I pause, remembering the easy flow of conversation once he stopped talking about waterfowl.

“He’s surprisingly easy to talk to when he’s not convinced we’re being surveilled. ”

“And the kiss?”

“The kiss was… ” I trail off, searching for adequate words. “Unexpected. Electric. Perfectly timed and completely mistimed simultaneously.”

She practically bounces with excitement. “Explain.”

“He grabbed me and kissed me in the middle of explaining enzyme kinetics because he thought we needed to hide our faces from surveillance.” I touch my lips reflexively. “It should have been awful timing, but somehow, it was perfect.”

“That’s so romantic.”

I shake my head. “That’s so weird.”

“Romantically weird. The best kind.” She grins. “Are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow night. Dinner at a restaurant with what he described as ‘appropriate security measures.’” I smile at the memory of his phrasing. “Whatever that means.”

“It means he’s still worried about surveillance.”

“It means he’s still paranoid about surveillance. There’s a difference.” As I say it, I can’t ignore the memory of seeing that black van three times. Could it be I’m hoping Calvin is crazy because I don’t want to think about what it means for me and my work if he isn’t?

We spend the next hour creating increasingly ridiculous scenarios involving Calvin’s hypothetical secret agent career.

Margo suggests he might be tracking international conspiracies to weaponize shifter genetics.

I counter with the theory that he’s actually hunting rogue scientists, who’ve been experimenting with illegal genetic modifications.

“The Secret Service of Scales,” Margo declares with mock solemnity.

“The Reptilian Intelligence Agency.”

“The Department of Lizard Homeland Security.”

By the time we’ve invented an entire shadow organization dedicated to protecting shifter intellectual property, we’re both laughing hard enough that actual work becomes impossible.

“Okay,” I say finally, wiping tears from my eyes. “Enough spy fantasies. I have real research to finish.”

“But you’re definitely seeing him again?”

“Assuming he doesn’t spend the entire evening scanning for imaginary threats…” I turn back to my computer, still grinning. “Yes, I’m seeing him again.”

The morning passes productively until my phone rings with a number I recognize but haven’t seen in more than a week. My good mood evaporates instantly. I answer coldly. “Dr. Lawson speaking.”

“Becci, it’s Trenton.”

The affected charm in his voice makes my skin crawl. Trenton Whitfield, my former boyfriend and current reminder of why I’d rather date potentially paranoid security consultants than pretentious academics.

“Trenton. What do you want?”

“That’s a bit cold. Don’t you think? Can’t an old friend call to see how you’re doing?”

I lean back in my chair, already annoyed. “We’re not friends, Trenton. We’re exes, who broke up because you suggested I tone down my ambition to be more appealing to potential mates.”

“Now, that’s not exactly what I said—”

“That’s exactly what you said. Along with suggesting I take up cooking or some other traditionally feminine hobby to seem more approachable.” I can practically hear him adjusting his pretentious glasses. “So again, what do you want?”

He clears his throat with the pompous precision that used to make me want to throw things. “If you must skip pleasantries, I’m calling about my jacket. The one you damaged during our… disagreement.”

“You mean the hideous tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches that you insisted made you look distinguished?”

“It’s a classic academic style, Rebecca. Very expensive, and very refined.” His voice takes on the whining quality that means he’s building up to a demand. “And you destroyed it when you shifted during our argument.”

“I shifted because you were being an insufferable ass about my career choices.”