Page 27 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Becci

Dawn breaks with the distant sound of search helicopters, their rotors creating a rhythmic pulse that filters through the jungle canopy.

I wake beside Cal, momentarily disoriented before the memories of our escape and subsequent conversations flood back.

The mass of his arm across my waist reminds me I’m in the South American jungle with a mercenary who risked everything to save me.

I watch him sleep for a moment, marveling at how my life has changed in just a few days.

Last week, I was worried about publication deadlines and awkward dinner dates with men who found my research either boring or morally questionable.

Now, I’m sharing a makeshift shelter with someone who seems to understand both my scientific and reptilian sides better than anyone I’ve ever met.

Cal stirs as the helicopter sounds grow closer, his enhanced hearing obviously detecting threat levels that escape normal human awareness. His transition from sleep to full alertness happens in seconds, surely a military response that speaks to years of training and experience.

“How close?” I ask while listening to the mechanical sounds overhead.

He tilts his head to track the aircraft movement. “Close enough that we need to move. They’re conducting systematic search patterns rather than random patrol flights.”

We pack our minimal supplies quickly and efficiently, our movements coordinated through the teamwork that developed during our escape. The helicopters represent a level of pursuit that suggests significant resources and determination from our opponents.

“Options?” I ask while securing the emergency medical kit in my pack.

Cal checks his compass bearing while assessing our tactical situation. “There’s a village about a day’s journey through the jungle. One of my contacts operates there. Javier will be able to arrange transportation out of the country.”

“How reliable is this contact?”

“Reliable enough that I’ve used his services before. Javier operates in the gray areas between official and unofficial commerce, which makes him useful for situations like ours.”

We begin moving through the jungle using routes that prioritize concealment over speed. The helicopter searches continue throughout the morning, creating ambient tension that keeps both of us alert for signs of ground pursuit teams.

The journey tests both our stamina and patience.

Dense vegetation makes navigation challenging, while the constant threat of discovery requires careful attention to noise discipline and movement patterns.

I apply my scientific approach to jungle travel, cataloging useful plants and calculating optimal rest intervals based on our physiological requirements.

“You’re treating this hike like a research expedition,” he says during one of our brief stops.

I examine a particularly interesting flowering vine while responding. “I’m applying systematic methodology to survival situations. The scientific approach works for everything from laboratory procedures to jungle navigation.”

“Including tactical situations?”

“Especially tactical situations. Observation, hypothesis formation, and testing create better outcomes than improvisation alone.”

Cal watches me document edible plants with obvious amusement. “Most people in our situation would be focused entirely on immediate survival rather than botanical research.”

“Most people don’t have PhDs in biochemistry and natural curiosity about ecosystem diversity.” I add another plant specimen to my mental catalog. “Also, understanding our environment improves our survival probability rather than detracting from it.”

The conversation continues as we navigate through increasingly challenging terrain. Cal’s military experience combines with my scientific approach to create effective problem-solving for obstacles like river crossings and steep elevation changes.

By evening, we reach the village, which is a small community built around sustainable agriculture and ecotourism that provides perfect cover for unofficial activities. Javier greets Cal with obvious warmth, speaking rapid Spanish that includes references to previous successful collaborations.

“He can arrange transportation,” Cal translates after their initial conversation, “But we need to wait until tomorrow for the arrangements to be completed.”

Javier offers us shelter in a small hut on the outskirts of the village, a simple space with basic amenities that feels luxurious after our jungle camping experience. The hut contains a single sleeping mat, a wash basin, and most importantly, privacy—our first real privacy since the escape.

“One sleeping arrangement,” I say while examining our accommodations.

Cal checks the security of the door and window coverings. “I can sleep on the floor if you prefer separate arrangements.”

“After sharing survival conditions for the past two days, I think we can manage a shared sleeping space like adults.” Not to mention what we shared last night when he found me in my room.

The wash basin contains clean water that looks incredibly appealing after our jungle travel. I begin the process of cleaning off accumulated dirt and vegetation while Cal conducts a security assessment of our temporary shelter.

“The water’s heated by solar collectors,” he says while testing the door locks. “Javier’s community uses sustainable technology for most of their basic needs.”

I start removing my shirt, grateful for the opportunity to properly clean accumulated grime and examine the healing progress of my arm injury. The partial shift required for thorough scale cleaning happens automatically as I focus on hygiene rather than social considerations.

The door opens just as I’m using my shifted flexibility to clean difficult-to-reach areas along my back and shoulders. Cal stops in the doorway, obviously not expecting to encounter me in partial crocodile form conducting what amounts to reptilian grooming behavior.

“Sorry,” he says, immediately moving to give me privacy. “I didn’t realize you were—”

“It’s fine.” I continue my cleaning routine without self-consciousness. “Partial shifting is necessary for proper scale maintenance after extended wilderness exposure.” I’m struggling to feel as aloof as I sound.

Cal remains in the doorway, apparently uncertain about whether to leave or stay. His expression shows fascination rather than the repulsion I’ve experienced from previous partners who witnessed my shifting behavior.

“Most people find reptilian grooming habits disturbing,” I say while working on scale cleaning.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “Most people don’t understand that different physiology requires different maintenance protocols.”

“You’re not disturbed by watching me clean scales?”

“Why would I be when I have scales of my own?” He approaches slowly, his expression showing genuine interest rather than polite tolerance. “I find both your brilliant mind and your crocodile nature equally appealing.”

The complete acceptance of both aspects of my identity—scientific and reptilian—from someone whose opinion matters to me hits me with unexpected emotional force.

Without overthinking for once in my life, I reach for him and pull him into a kiss that carries all the gratitude and attraction I’ve been processing since our escape began.

Unlike our frantic first encounter in the storage closet, this kiss is deliberate and exploratory.

He responds immediately, stroking my partially shifted skin with obvious appreciation for the textural differences. When he traces the scales along my shoulders, I shiver with pleasure at the enhanced sensitivity.

“I’ve never had a partner who wasn’t afraid of my shifting,” I whisper against his lips.

He trails kisses down my neck to where scales meet human skin. “I’ve never had a partner who understood reptilian nature from personal experience.”

The combination of emotional acceptance and physical attraction creates intensity that makes our previous encounter seem rushed by comparison. I pull him toward the sleeping mat with scientific precision applied to seduction techniques.

“Your turn,” I say while working on the fastenings of his shirt with hands that are steadier than I expected.

Cal helps me remove his clothing, but I stop him when he reaches for his pants.

I want to explore this methodically, the way I approach everything that matters.

His chest is broader than his clothes suggested, with lean muscle that speaks to functional strength rather than gym vanity.

The skin is warm under my palms, and I feel his heartbeat accelerating as I trace the contours.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, surprised by how much I mean it.

The scars tell stories I want to catalog—a puckered mark near his shoulder, a thin line across his ribs, and then smaller nicks and marks that map a dangerous career. When I trace the longest scar with my fingertip, he catches my hand.

“Shrapnel from an IED in Afghanistan.” His voice carries the matter-of-fact tone of someone who’s made peace with old pain.

I press my lips to the scar, tasting salt and the faint musk of his skin. “How many operations have you been on?”

Cal’s free hand finds my hair, threading his fingers through the strands. “Enough to make civilian dating complicated. Until now.”

He pulls me up for a kiss that tastes like coffee and something deeper I don’t want to analyze yet.

Instead, I push him down onto the sleeping mat and straddle his hips, taking control with the same approach I use when a hypothesis is too important to rush.

“Let me show you how I attack complicated problems.”