Page 9 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Becci

Dr. Laurent’s voice comes through with the kind of barely contained excitement that usually means grant money. “Dr. Lawson, I have excellent news. The review committee has approved your phase two application.”

I nearly drop the phone into my morning coffee. “Phase two? Already?”

“Your preliminary results were extraordinary. The committee wants to fast-track your research into human trials.” His voice carries the weight of someone delivering life-changing information. “Congratulations, Dr. Lawson. This is a significant achievement.”

The room spins slightly as I absorb the news.

Phase two approval means real funding, expanded research capabilities, and the chance to move my work from theoretical breakthrough to practical application.

It also means my genetic sequencing research on reptilian shifter healing capabilities could actually revolutionize trauma medicine within the next few years.

“Dr. Laurent, this is incredible. Thank you.”

“You’ve earned it. However, I need to discuss some concerns with you.

” His tone shifts to something more cautious.

“Your research has attracted significant attention from pharmaceutical companies and military research groups. Some of the interest appears to have started before your official results were announced.”

I set down my coffee cup carefully. “What kind of interest?”

“Inquiries about licensing opportunities, requests for preliminary data, and what appears to be attempts to access your research profiles through unofficial channels.” Dr. Laurent pauses.

“Dr. Lawson, I strongly recommend exercising discretion with your unpublished findings. Keep your most sensitive data secured until we can establish proper protocols for commercial partnerships.”

The warning should probably concern me more than it does. “I appreciate the advice, Dr. Laurent. My core research remains encrypted and accessible only to me and my research assistant.”

“Good. Be especially careful with the genetic sequencing data that would allow replication of your processes. That information could be extremely valuable to the wrong people.”

After he hangs up, I sit in my kitchen staring at the wall where I’ve tacked up research charts, grant timelines, and a photo of Galileo wearing tiny sunglasses.

Phase two approval represents everything I’ve worked toward for the past five years.

The practical applications of my research could help thousands of people recover from injuries that currently result in permanent disability.

The excitement builds in my chest until I can barely sit still.

I need to get to the lab, update my protocols, and start planning for expanded trials, but first, I need to tell someone who’ll understand exactly what this means.

I text my research assistant to come in early, being mysterious, before rushing out the door.

Margo arrives at the lab twenty minutes after I do, carrying her usual coffee offerings and wearing another vintage band T-shirt that somehow makes her look both professional and ready to cause trouble. She takes one look at my face and grins. “Good news or really good news?”

“Phase two approval.”

She nearly drops both coffee cups. “Phase two? Dr. L, that’s incredible! This is huge.”

“Huge and terrifying and absolutely amazing.” I accept the coffee gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma that’s become my morning ritual. “We’re moving to human trials.”

“We’re going to help people.” Margo’s voice carries the same awe I feel. “Dr. L, your research is going to change lives.”

We spend the next hour organizing protocols and updating security measures for the expanded research.

The genetic sequencing data that makes my work truly revolutionary remains in encrypted files that only Margo and I can access, but the supporting research will need to be shared with review committees and potential funding partners.

“Dr. L?” Margo says, looking up from her computer with a slightly concerned expression. “I found something weird while updating our grant database entries.”

“Weird, how?”

“Someone made an inquiry about your research through a private foundation connected to something called Vega Pharmaceuticals.” She turns her screen toward me. “The request was tagged to your research ID before the official phase two results were even announced.”

I study the screen, noting the timestamp and the vague language of the inquiry. “How did you find this?”

“I was cross-referencing our grant applications with pharmaceutical company databases to see who might be interested in licensing partnerships.” Margo shrugs with the casual air of someone who’s done nothing wrong. “I may have accessed some restricted databases in the process.”

“Margo, please tell me you didn’t hack into government systems.”

“I didn’t hack anything. I just… thoroughly researched publicly available information that happens to be stored in secure locations.”

The careful way she phrases this suggests I don’t want to know the details. “What exactly did this Vega Pharmaceuticals want to know?”

“Genetic sequencing methodologies, trial timelines, and something about ‘potential applications for enhanced human performance.’” Margo frowns at the screen. “That last part seems oddly specific for a general inquiry.”

“Enhanced human performance?”

“That’s what caught my attention. Most pharmaceutical companies ask about therapeutic applications. This feels more like… I don’t know, military research?”

The concern in her voice is probably justified, but I’m too excited about phase two approval to worry about corporate snooping. “It’s probably just opportunistic fishing. Companies monitor grant databases for promising research all the time.”

“Dr. L, they knew about your approval before you did.”

That fact is more troubling than I want to admit but not necessarily sinister. “Academic grapevines move faster than official notifications sometimes. Plus, review committees aren’t exactly secret societies.”

Margo doesn’t look convinced. “Want me to dig deeper? I could find out more about this Vega place.”

“Let’s focus on our legitimate research first. If this becomes a real concern, we’ll address it then.” I file the information away as a future problem. “Creepy, but not illegal.”

She returns to her computer, but I notice she keeps the Vega Pharmaceuticals information open in a background window. Her hacktivist instincts are probably telling her to investigate further, but I trust her to be appropriately paranoid without getting us into legal trouble.

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur of updated protocols and excited planning.

The implications of phase two approval keep hitting me in waves—expanded lab space, additional research assistants, and the chance to work with human subjects rather than just theoretical models.

Everything I’ve worked toward is finally becoming reality.

My celebration causes a minor disaster when I get so excited about a particularly elegant solution to a trial design problem that I accidentally trigger a partial tail shift.

The appendage that appears behind me is only about two feet long, but it’s enough to sweep across my workstation and knock over my entire collection of preserved tissue samples.

Seventeen glass specimen jars hit the floor in a cascade of breaking glass and spilled preservative solutions.

The various biological samples—everything from lizard skin grafts to salamander tissue cultures—scatter across the lab floor in a slippery mess of formaldehyde, ethanol, and years of careful research preparation.

“Dr. L!” Margo rushes over with an armload of absorbent pads. “Please tell me those weren’t the only samples.”

“Thankfully, no. These were backup specimens, not the primary research materials.” I grab more absorbent materials while my tail slowly retracts. “But this represents about six months of preparation work.”

“This is why we have redundant storage systems,” she says, carefully collecting the salvageable samples while avoiding the broken glass.

The cleanup takes two hours, involves careful documentation of what’s been lost, and results in a patch of lab floor that smells permanently of preservative chemicals.

By the time we finish, my lab coat bears suspicious stains in multiple colors, my hair is plastered to one side with green goo, and I smell like I’ve been wrestling with a chemistry set.

“Dr. L,” says Margo carefully, “don’t you have a date tonight?”

I check my watch and discover it’s 6:30 p.m. My date with Calvin starts in thirty minutes, and I look like I’ve been involved in some kind of laboratory explosion. Which, technically, I have.

“No, no, no.” I start stripping off my ruined lab coat while mentally calculating travel time to the restaurant. “I can’t show up looking like this.”

“Emergency shower?” Margo suggests, pointing toward the chemical wash station.

“That’s for chemical exposure emergencies, not vanity emergencies.”

“Dr. L, you are literally covered in unknown chemical compounds. This qualifies as a chemical exposure emergency.”

She has a point. I grab the dress I brought this morning for tonight’s date, hanging with the clothes from my emergency wardrobe (kept in the lab for exactly these situations) and head for the chemical wash station.

The emergency shower is designed to remove hazardous materials from skin and clothing, not to prepare someone for a romantic dinner, but desperate times call for creative solutions.