Page 5 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Becci

The day after my evening call with Red, the owner of Romance Expected, I make my way to a narrow stairwell leading to Romance Expected that smells like nail polish remover and ramen broth.

The oddly comforting combination somehow calms my nerves.

I’ve changed clothes three times, finally settling on a professional but approachable outfit that doesn’t scream “scientist who accidentally destroys lab equipment when excited.”

I push open the cheerful red door and immediately trip over a bookshelf positioned directly inside the entrance. My ankle twists, and I grab for the nearest stable surface, which turns out to be a display of ceramic red pandas that scatter across the floor in a symphony of breaking porcelain.

“Oh no, oh no, I’m so sorry—” I scramble to collect the pieces while simultaneously trying to regain my balance and what’s left of my dignity.

“Don’t worry about those,” calls a bright voice from behind the front desk. “They were cheap tourist trap souvenirs anyway.”

The woman who hurries over to help me is exactly what I’d expect from someone who decorates exclusively in red.

Auburn hair in a perfect bob, a smile that could power a small city, and an energy level that suggests she really likes coffee.

She extends a hand to help me up. “You must be Dr. Lawson. I’m Red Carrington, and welcome to Romance Expected. ”

I accept her help, brushing ceramic dust off my skirt. “I’m so sorry about your decorations. I can replace them—”

Red waves dismissively. “Honestly, you did me a favor. My cousin keeps bringing me red panda figurines every time she travels, and I was running out of shelf space.” She gestures at the awkwardly placed bookshelf. “Sorry about the obstacle course.”

Red grins. The waiting room is an explosion of cheerful chaos with red walls covered in floral wallpaper that somehow works, mismatched furniture that looks comfortable rather than coordinated, and an entire wall dedicated to photos of happy couples.

I pause to study them, fascinated by the variety of shifter pairings represented.

“Is that a wolf and a rabbit?” I point to one photo, where a large man with distinctly lupine features has his arm around a petite woman, who’s clearly mid-shift, complete with long ears and a twitching nose.

Red follows my gaze and chuckles. “Jonas and Elia. That photo was taken during their first date, when he accidentally triggered her flight response. They’re married now with twins.” She points to the handwritten note beneath the photo. “It worked out. We promise!”

Another photo shows what appears to be a hawk shifter perched on the shoulder of someone who looks like they’re about to shift into hedgehog form. The contrast is so absurd, I laugh. “How does that even work?”

“Very carefully and with excellent communication.” Red’s grin widens. “That’s the beauty of what we do here. Conventional dating assumes everyone fits into neat little categories. Shifter dating acknowledges that compatibility is more complex than species matching.”

We reach her office, which continues the red theme with an impressive collection of red panda figurines arranged on every available surface.

I automatically catalog the setup—good lighting for detailed work, multiple seating options, and enough visual stimulation to keep a conversation flowing.

It’s exactly what I’d design for client consultations if I were in the people business instead of the genetics business.

“Please, sit wherever you’re comfortable.” She settles behind her desk, pulling out a tablet that’s seen significant use. “So, Dr. Lawson, tell me about your dating history.”

I choose the chair that faces the door. “It’s been… challenging. Most men seem to think my career is fascinating in theory but completely intimidating in practice or that I got to where I am through the bedroom.”

“Which reaction bothers you more?”

The question catches me off guard and I hesitate. “I…”

She leans forward, her expression genuinely curious. “Some people want to be appreciated for who they are professionally while others want their personal life to be separate from their work identity. Which camp are you in?”

I consider this while studying the collection of successful match photos scattered across her desk.

“I want someone who understands my work isn’t just what I do but is who I am.

I’m not Dr. Lawson from nine to five and Rebecca the rest of the time.

I’m a scientist who happens to be shaped like a crocodile sometimes. ”

“Perfect.” She makes notes on her tablet. “That’s exactly the kind of clarity that makes my job easier.” She hands me a questionnaire that’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The first question reads: “On a scale of 1–10, how likely are you to view prey animals as actual prey?”

I blink at the paper. “This is very… specific.”

“We’ve learned to ask the important questions upfront.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “Better to address potential compatibility issues before someone ends up traumatized at a dinner party.”

The next question is even better: “Rate your embarrassing shift triggers: Stress, excitement, anger, arousal, significant breakthroughs, really good food, other (please specify).”

I laugh as I check multiple boxes. “Breakthroughs—scientifically, specifically—extreme annoyance, and surprisingly good desserts.”

“Surprisingly good desserts?”

“I once partially shifted during a faculty dinner because the chocolate torte was so perfectly balanced. The dean wasn’t amused when I accidentally punctured the tablecloth with my claws while reaching for seconds.”

She makes another note, grinning. “That’s going in your profile as a charming quirk, not a liability.”

The questionnaire continues with gems like “How do you feel about partners who shed skin occasionally?” and “Rate your comfort level with mates who require specialized temperature control.”

“Have you ever accidentally damaged property during shifting?” Red reads from her tablet.

“Define ‘accidentally.’”

“Unintentionally but unavoidably due to shifter biology.”

I pause, considering how much honesty this situation requires. “I once bit through a solid steel laboratory refrigerator door during a particularly exciting research breakthrough.”

Red doesn’t even blink. “What kind of breakthrough?”

“I successfully mapped the genetic sequence responsible for accelerated healing in reptilian shifters. The implications for regenerative medicine were staggering, and my excitement triggered a partial shift. Unfortunately, the refrigerator door was between me and my celebration snack.”

“And your colleagues’ reaction?”

“They were more concerned about whether the samples inside were contaminated than about my sudden acquisition of industrial-strength jaw force.” I smile at the memory. “It was actually refreshing to work with people who prioritized scientific integrity over social norms.”

Red makes enthusiastic notes. “Dr. Lawson, you’re going to be a joy to match. Most of my clients spend the entire consultation apologizing for their shifter traits. You’re owning yours.”

The questionnaire concludes with lifestyle questions that range from practical (“Do you require specific humidity levels in your living space?” ) to oddly specific (“How do you feel about partners who stockpile emergency supplies?” ).

By the time I finish, I feel like Red knows more about my shifter biology than most of my medical doctors.

“This is incredibly thorough.” I hand back the completed forms.

“We’ve learned that surface-level compatibility isn’t enough for shifters with complex needs.

” She reviews my answers with obvious satisfaction.

“You’re honest about your requirements, realistic about your quirks, and looking for genuine acceptance rather than tolerance.

That’s the perfect foundation for a lasting match. ”

“How quickly does this process usually work?”

“For someone with your profile? I’d expect to have options within a few days. Maybe sooner if my instincts are right about a particular client, but I still have to conduct his intake. He’s coming by tomorrow.”

Her expression shifts to something that reminds me of a predator who’s spotted interesting prey. It’s oddly comforting to see someone else’s hunting instincts surface during professional activities.

She calls exactly twenty-four hours later while I’m in the middle of calibrating a spectrophotometer that’s been giving me attitude all morning. I answer on the third ring, not expecting Red’s cheerful voice.

“Dr. Lawson, it’s Red from Romance Expected. Do you have a few minutes to discuss a potential match?”

I set down the calibration tools and give her my full attention. “That was fast.”

“Sometimes, the universe provides exactly what we need when we need it.” Red’s enthusiasm practically vibrates through the phone. “I have someone I think you’ll find fascinating. Calvin Hargrove, thirty-six, Gila monster shifter.” Her voice drops slightly. “He’s in my office right now.”

“Another reptile?”

“I know what you’re thinking—won’t that create territorial issues? But reptile-reptile matches actually have excellent compatibility rates. You understand each other’s temperature needs, shedding cycles, and the social challenges of being predator shifters in a prey-animal-dominated world.”

She’s not wrong. The thought of dating someone who doesn’t need explanations about my basking requirements or emergency meat storage is genuinely appealing. “What does he do professionally?”

“International security consultant. Very experienced but recently transitioning to more domestic work.”

The phrasing seems carefully diplomatic. “What kind of security consulting?”

Red’s pause is just long enough to be noticeable. “He has extensive military background and has worked in some… challenging international situations, but he’s actively pursuing civilian integration and looking for stability.”