Page 3 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Cal

The hotel room in Bogotá is exactly what you’d expect for someone in my line of work—functional, forgettable, and boasting enough exit routes to make a paranoid ex-soldier feel comfortable.

My duffel bag sits half-packed on the single chair, and my tactical gear is organized with the kind of precision that screams “former Special Forces” to anyone who knows what to look for.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and grab the notebook I’ve been keeping since my last therapy session.

Dr. Martinez insisted I write down goals for “civilian reintegration,” though I suspect she never imagined I’d approach psychological adjustment like a military operation. The list currently reads:

Find apartment with normal number of locks (completed—only four deadbolts)

Buy furniture not designed for rapid deployment (in progress)

Learn to make small talk that doesn’t involve tactical assessments

Stop automatically cataloging weapon potential in everyday objects

Date someone who won’t run screaming when they discover what I do for work

I pull out my pen and add: “6. Learn appropriate first date topics that don’t involve weapons or tactical maneuvers.”

The memory of my last attempted date still makes me wince.

Sylvi, a perfectly nice kindergarten teacher, had been telling me about her students when the waiter approached our table carrying a steak knife.

Something about his movement pattern triggered my training, and before I could stop myself, I’d disarmed him and had him pinned against the wall with the blade secured.

The waiter turned out to be bringing Sylvi her requested steak sauce and knife.

She turned out to be someone who doesn’t appreciate dinner companions who can neutralize potential threats in under three seconds.

The relationship lasted exactly as long as it took her to grab her purse and flee the restaurant.

The burner phone buzzes again. Ellis is persistent as always. “What do you want, Hammond?”

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine. I’ve got a job—”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard the details.”

I stand and walk to the window, automatically checking sight lines to the street below. I’m supposedly trying to break the habit, though old training is hard to suppress. “I told you I’m getting out of this business. I meant it.”

Ellis snorts. “Cal, this is easy money. You’re already in the area, sort of, and it’s just three days in Venezuela doing basic surveillance on a pharmaceutical executive. No shooting or explosions. Just watching and reporting.”

“I said no. This was my last assignment.” I’m doing a background check on a diplomat’s daughter’s new boyfriend, and he wanted to ensure the boy being from Colombia wouldn’t affect the diplomat’s reputation.

He might have had some concerns about his daughter’s safety, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

Fortunately, the boy grew up dirt poor but honest, so he has nothing to worry about.

Ellis pauses, and I can practically hear him strategizing through the phone. “This is about that civilian integration bullshit your therapist has you doing. Isn’t it?”

I sigh heavily. “It’s about wanting a life that doesn’t involve dodging bullets for a living.”

“You’ve been dodging bullets since you were eighteen. What else are you going to do? Sell insurance?”

The question stings because I don’t have a good answer.

Military service transitioned seamlessly into private security work, which morphed into the gray areas of mercenary contracts.

I’m thirty-six years old, and I’ve never held a job that didn’t involve the potential for violence. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Cal—”

“Ellis, I’ve got an appointment this morning. I need to go.”

He sounds suspicious. “An appointment? What kind of appointment?”

I consider lying, but he has an annoying ability to detect deception. “A dating service.”

The silence stretches so long I wonder if the call dropped.

“A dating service,” Ellis repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

“Calvin Hargrove, who once spent seventy-two hours in a sniper’s nest eating nothing but energy bars and rainwater, is going to a dating service?”

I scowl at the phone. “Your point?”

“My point is that you’re losing your damn mind. What happens when some nice civilian woman finds out you’ve killed more people than a small plague?”

The question hits harder than I want to admit. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Ellis sighs, the sound of a man who’s watched too many good soldiers struggle with peace. “Be careful, Cal. The civilian world isn’t as forgiving as you think.”

After he hangs up, I finish packing my gear. By 0700, I’m checked out and driving the rental car through morning traffic toward the airport. The job netted enough to cover my expenses for the next few months, which should give me time to figure out what I’m supposed to do with a normal life.

The flight back to the States is unremarkable, which in my business is the highest compliment you can give air travel. No suspicious passengers, no unusual flight patterns, and no one trying to kill anyone. Just commercial aviation at its most mundane.

I land with three hours to spare before my appointment at Romance Expected.

The dating service was a former teammate’s suggestion.

Apparently, Nikolai’s cousin met her husband through them, and they specialize in “unique individuals with complex professional circumstances.” When I pointed out that in our case, “complex professional circumstances” was a euphemism for “people who kill for money,” Nikolai shrugged and said love was love.

The address leads me to a narrow building wedged between a nail salon and a ramen shop.

I arrive forty-five minutes early, partly out of habit and partly because I want to assess the security situation before committing to anything.

The neighborhood seems safe enough, with good foot traffic, multiple exit routes, and no obvious surveillance positions.

I’m circling the block for the third time when I realize what I’m doing. Dr. Martinez would call this “avoidance behavior masquerading as tactical preparation.” She’d probably be right.

I park and head inside, taking the stairs to the second floor two at a time. The door to Romance Expected is painted a cheerful red with gold lettering, which seems aggressively optimistic for a business that deals with people’s romantic failures.

Inside, the waiting room looks like someone’s grandmother decorated it after winning the lottery.

Red walls, floral patterns, and enough framed photos of happy couples to stock a small museum.

The photos show an impressive variety of shifter types—wolves with rabbits, bears with deer, and even what looks like a hawk paired with a hedgehog.

“Hello,” calls a voice from behind the front desk. “You must be Calvin. I’m Red.”

The woman who emerges is exactly what you’d expect from someone who names their business after themselves and decorates in matching colors.

Auburn hair, bright smile, and an energy level that suggests either caffeine addiction or natural enthusiasm.

Something about the subtle markings around her eyes marks her as a red panda shifter, though she’s doing her best to appear human-normal.

“Ms. Carrington. Thank you for fitting me into your schedule.”

“Oh, please, just Red. Everyone calls me Red.” She gestures toward her office.

“Come on back, and we’ll get you sorted out.

I’d normally have Finley handle intake, but she’s on her honeymoon with her husband, Michael.

” She points to a large picture on the wall, framed with a red heart. “One of my most successful matches.”

I nod politely and follow her back. Her office continues the red theme with an impressive collection of red panda figurines arranged on shelves.

I automatically note the positions of windows, doors, and potential weapons before catching myself.

Normal people don’t assess office spaces for tactical advantages.

“Have a seat wherever you’re comfortable.”

The chair she indicates faces the door with clear sight lines to both windows. Either Red understands her clientele better than most, or I’m more obvious than I want to be.

“So, Calvin, tell me a bit about yourself. What brings you to Romance Expected?”

Standard intake question, but I still don’t have a good answer. “I’m trying to transition into civilian life. Thought it might be easier with someone who understands… complex circumstances.”

She nods like this makes perfect sense. “What kind of work are you transitioning from?”

“Private security. International contracts.”

“Ah.” Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her posture suggests she’s dealt with my type before. “Military background?”

“Special Forces. Eight years active duty and then private sector.”

“And you’re looking to settle down somewhere more stable?”

The question sounds simple, but I sense layers underneath. “I’m looking to build something that doesn’t involve getting shot at for a living.”

Red grins, pulling out a tablet and stylus. “That’s refreshingly honest. Most of my ex-military clients spend twenty minutes dancing around what they actually did overseas.”

She starts tapping notes into her tablet, and I find myself relaxing despite the unfamiliar situation. Something is comforting about her matter-of-fact approach to what most people would consider deeply unusual circumstances.

“Now, I’m going to ask some questions that might seem a bit personal, but they help me understand what kind of match would work for you. Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Tell me about your last relationship.”

“If you consider a relationship about twenty minutes… She was a kindergarten teacher. Sweet, normal, and completely incompatible with my lifestyle.”

“What happened?”

“I disarmed a waiter during dinner. She didn’t take it well.”

Red pauses her note-taking. “Was the waiter actually threatening you?”