Page 31 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Becci

Puerto Limón smells like salt air, diesel fuel, and fried plantains.

The combination should be unpleasant, but after three days in the jungle followed by a boat ride that involved more tactical maneuvering than I expected, the scents of civilization feel like home, even if this particular civilization involves dodging international criminals and operating under fake identities.

Cal guides me through the port town with a casual confidence that says he’s done this before.

His hand rests on the small of my back as we navigate crowded streets filled with vendors selling everything from fresh seafood to questionable electronics.

The protective gesture would normally irritate me, but considering recent events involving armed kidnappers and genetic weapons research, I’m willing to accept some tactical hovering.

“Our contact should be here,” he says while scanning the café tables with systematic attention that never fully turns off.

The contact turns out to be a woman named Selena, who could blend into any crowd of middle-aged tourists visiting Costa Rica for the coffee and bird-watching. She wears a floral shirt with sensible walking shoes and carries a guidebook that probably contains more than restaurant recommendations.

“Dr. Lawson,” she says in accented English while gesturing for us to join her at a corner table. “I have what you need for safe travel.”

She slides a manila envelope across the table with movements that suggest extensive practice in discreet document transfers. Inside are two passports that look completely legitimate, airline tickets for tomorrow morning, and credit cards that match our new identities.

I examine my new passport photo and discover I’m now Dr. Maria Santos, a marine biologist from San Diego.

The photo somehow makes me look like someone who spends time on research vessels rather than in genetics laboratories.

“How did you get this picture? I don’t remember posing for passport photos. ”

Selena smiles with professional satisfaction. “Digital photography makes many things possible that were complicated in earlier times.”

Cal reviews his documentation with obvious approval.

He’s become James Morrison, an environmental consultant specializing in sustainable tourism development.

The identity suits him better than I expected, making him look like someone who combines outdoor skills with business expertise rather than tactical operations.

“Your flight leaves at eight tomorrow morning,” Selena says while checking her watch. “Hotel arrangements are confirmed under your new names. I recommend staying inconspicuous until departure time.”

“Staying inconspicuous in a port town that probably sees its share of unusual visitors shouldn’t be difficult,” I say while tucking my new identity documents into the bag Cal insisted I carry.

She laughs with genuine amusement. “Puerto Limón welcomes many people who prefer not to discuss their backgrounds extensively. You will blend in perfectly.”

After Selena leaves, Cal and I find ourselves with an entire afternoon and evening to kill in a coastal town that feels surprisingly normal after our recent experiences with kidnapping and jungle warfare.

The transition from survival mode to tourist mode creates cognitive dissonance that my brain struggles to process.

“We need clothes,” I say while examining my current outfit, which has survived jungle escape, river travel, and emotional revelations but won’t pass casual inspection much longer. “Also, I’d like to buy a proper specimen collection kit if possible.”

Cal stares at me like he’s trying to determine if I’m serious. “You want to continue collecting biological samples while we’re in hiding?”

“I want to maximize the educational value of international travel experiences.” I gesture toward the diverse plant life visible throughout the town. “This ecosystem represents research opportunities that don’t exist in my usual location.”

“Right. Of course.”

We spend the next two hours shopping in local stores that cater to both residents and tourists.

Cal approaches clothing selection with the same methodical precision he applies to tactical planning, choosing items that balance comfort, durability, and the ability to move quickly if necessary.

I focus on finding a simple dress that doesn’t make me look like I’ve been living in the jungle and sandals that won’t fall off if we need to run from additional international criminal organizations.

The shopping expedition reveals interesting aspects of Cal’s personality that don’t emerge during tactical operations.

He has opinions about fabric quality, understands color coordination better than most men, and somehow knows exactly which local vendors offer genuine products versus tourist-targeted merchandise.

“Military training includes cultural adaptation and local integration skills,” he says while helping me select a lightweight cardigan that coordinates with my new dress. “You learn to blend in with different environments quickly.”

“Including knowledge of women’s fashion coordination?” I grin at him.

His ears turn slightly red. “Including observation skills that apply to multiple situations.” He holds up a scarf that complements my coloring perfectly. “Also, I pay attention to details that matter to people I care about.”

The casual way he includes me in the category of people he cares about makes something warm flutter in my chest. I’m still processing when he moves on to examine the specimen collection supplies I requested.

The local pharmacy stocks basic scientific equipment that exceeds my expectations, including glass vials, magnifying glasses, pH testing supplies, and even a portable microscope.

Cal watches me organize my improvised field research kit with obvious amusement. “You’re building a mobile laboratory,” he says while I test the microscope’s focusing mechanism.

“I’m preparing for opportunistic data collection during the remainder of our travel experience.” I adjust the lens settings with satisfaction. “Scientific research doesn’t pause for tactical complications.”

“Scientific research is apparently one of your tactical complications.”

We find our hotel that caters to ecotourists and business travelers who value privacy over luxury amenities.

The room includes two beds, which seems optimistically practical until Cal sets his tactical bag on the floor, and I realize we haven’t actually discussed sleeping arrangements since our night in Javier’s village.

“Two beds,” I say while examining the room’s layout with scientific precision.

“Two beds,” he agrees while conducting his own security assessment of windows, exits, and sight lines.

“We could use them separately for optimal rest efficiency.”

“We could.”

“Or we could use one for sleeping and one for equipment storage.”

“That’s also an option.”

The conversation falters for a second with everything we haven’t said about what happened between us and what continues happening between us.

The attraction that started with our disastrous first date has evolved through kidnapping, escape, and shared danger into something I can’t easily categorize or control. “Cal?”

“Yeah?”

“I vote for equipment storage.”

He grins with relief that suggests he was hoping I’d reach that conclusion. “Equipment storage it is.”

We settle into the room with the kind of easy coordination that’s become natural over the past few days. He organizes his gear with military precision while I set up my new specimen collection kit on the room’s small table. The domesticity of it feels surreal after recent events.

“Are you hungry?” he asks while checking the time and comparing it to our flight schedule. “There’s supposed to be good seafood restaurants within walking distance.”

My stomach chooses that moment to remind me that jungle survival rations and boat snacks don’t constitute adequate nutrition for someone with my metabolism. “Starving. Also, I’d like to try local cuisine that doesn’t involve emergency preparedness.”

The restaurant Cal chooses occupies a converted colonial building with outdoor seating that overlooks the Caribbean.

String lights create warm illumination while ceiling fans move air that carries the scents of grilled fish, tropical fruit, and ocean salt.

The setting would be perfect for a romantic dinner if we weren’t here under assumed identities while avoiding international pursuit teams.

I order grilled Mahi-Mahi with plantains and rice, while Cal selects something called casado that appears to include every possible food group represented in Costa Rican cuisine.

The portions are generous, the flavors are extraordinary, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can actually relax and enjoy the experience.

“This is significantly better than military rations,” he says while sampling his dinner with obvious appreciation.

“This is significantly better than laboratory vending machine cuisine—especially half-smashed cheese crackers.” I taste the Mahi-Mahi and discover it’s perfectly prepared with spices I can’t identify but definitely want to research.

“The chemical compounds responsible for these flavor profiles must involve interesting interactions between local spice varieties and preparation techniques.”

He arches a brow but is smiling. “You’re analyzing dinner like a research project?”

“I analyze everything like a research project. It’s one of my more charming personality traits.” I flash him a grin.

Cal laughs while working through his casado with systematic thoroughness. “It’s one of your most attractive personality traits.”