Page 7 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)

Cal

My apartment reflects the same disciplined approach to civilian life that I bring to everything else, with minimal furniture arranged for optimal movement patterns, emergency supplies organized in clearly labeled containers, a go-bag on the hall coat rack/shoe bench, and enough weapons strategically placed to handle most threats.

Dr. Martinez calls it “hypervigilance manifesting as domestic preparedness.” I call it being realistic about the world we live in.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m approaching psychological adjustment with the same methodical precision I once used for mission planning. Some habits transfer better than others.

The morning stretches ahead with nothing but preparation time, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Too much time to think leads to overthinking, which leads to the kind of tactical planning that’s completely inappropriate for dinner dates.

I distract myself with a workout routine that would make my old drill sergeant proud—two hundred push-ups, three hundred sit-ups, and a five-mile run through the neighborhood that leaves me sweating out nervous energy.

Back home, I make the mistake of checking my secure email account and find three new contract offers, each promising enough money to fund a comfortable retirement.

A kidnapping extraction in Morocco, corporate security for a pharmaceutical executive in Venezuela (I guess that observation escalated to fortification), and something involving “asset protection” in the Democratic Republic of Congo that Ellis has helpfully marked as “low risk, high reward.”

The temptation is stronger than I want to admit. Those jobs represent the life I understand, where success is measured in clear objectives and concrete outcomes. Complete the mission, protect the asset, and eliminate the threat. I thrive with simple parameters that yield definitive results.

Dating Dr. Rebecca Lawson represents something far more complex and unpredictable. What if she asks questions I can’t answer honestly? What if my background horrifies her despite Red’s assurances? What if I accidentally revert to tactical protocols and ruin everything before dessert arrives?

As though he’s read my mind, my phone buzzes with a text from Ellis: “DRC job still available if you change your mind. Easy money.”

I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. One text, and I could be back in familiar territory within twenty-four hours with professional challenges I understand, risks I can calculate, and objectives I know how to achieve.

Instead, I delete the message without responding. He means well, but he doesn’t understand that easy money often comes with complicated consequences, and I’ve had enough of both to last several lifetimes.

The decision feels significant in a way that probably requires more analysis than I’m prepared to give it.

Choosing dinner with a brilliant scientist over combat pay in Africa suggests either personal growth or temporary insanity.

Dr. Martinez would probably vote for personal growth. My bank account might disagree.

Instead, I pull up Dr. Martinez’s contact information and schedule an emergency session. If I’m going to survive a dinner date without reverting to tactical protocols, I need professional guidance.

Her office is in one of those converted Victorian houses that tries too hard to look welcoming with soft lighting, comfortable furniture, and the kind of carefully neutral artwork that’s supposed to promote emotional openness.

I automatically note the two exits, the sight lines to the street, and the structural weak points before catching myself and deliberately focusing on the appointment instead of escape routes.

Dr. Martinez is waiting with her usual patient smile and clipboard full of notes about my psychological state.

She’s a small woman with steel-gray hair and the kind of steady presence that probably makes most people feel safe.

I appreciate that she doesn’t try to make me feel comfortable.

She just accepts that comfort isn’t my default setting and works with what I give her.

“Calvin, you sounded urgent on the phone. What’s happening?”

I settle into the chair that faces the door—a compromise we reached after several sessions, where I spent more time monitoring the entrance than engaging in therapy. “I have a date tonight.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly. “That’s wonderful news. Tell me about her.”

“Dr. Rebecca Lawson. Crocodile shifter, research scientist, and apparently stress-alphabetizes lab specimens when she’s nervous.”

Dr. Martinez makes notes, probably documenting my first real voluntary disclosure of personal information in months. “How did you meet?”

“Dating service that specializes in shifters with complex backgrounds.” I pause, realizing how that sounds. “She’s not the one with the complex background. That would be me.”

“What makes her background less complex?”

The question catches me by surprise. “She’s a legitimate scientist doing groundbreaking research in regenerative medicine. I’m a mercenary trying to figure out how to have normal conversations without mentioning body counts.”

“Calvin, do you think her research has never involved difficult choices? Do you think scientists don’t face moral complexity in their work?”

I hadn’t considered that perspective. In my world, moral complexity usually involves decisions about who lives and who dies. Academic moral complexity seems theoretical by comparison. “It’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Her choices save lives. Mine end them.”

She sets down her pen and gives me the kind of direct look that usually precedes uncomfortable insights. “You’ve spent fifteen years protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves. Your choices have saved significantly more lives than they’ve ended. When was the last time you acknowledged that?”

The question stuns me. Military service and private security work don’t encourage self-reflection about positive outcomes. You complete the mission, eliminate the threat, and move on to the next objective. Success is measured by what doesn’t happen, not by what does.

“I don’t think about it that way.”

“Maybe you should start.” She picks up her pen again. “Tell me about your concerns regarding tonight.”

The list I’ve been mentally compiling all morning spills out faster than I intend.

“I don’t know how to talk about my work without sounding like a sociopath.

I automatically assess threats in every environment.

I’ve been trained to read people for deception and hostile intent, which makes casual conversation feel like interrogation.

Oh, and I occasionally shed my skin at inappropriate moments. ”

“Those are significant concerns. Let’s address them one at a time.” She flips to a fresh page. “First, your work. What aspects of it do you think would be most difficult for a potential partner to accept?”

“The violence. The moral ambiguity. The fact that I’ve killed people for money.”

“Have you killed innocent people for money?”

“No.”

She nods. “Have you ever taken a contract that involved harming civilians?”

“Never.”

I see a flash of an approving smile. “So, you’ve been paid to eliminate threats to innocent people. That’s not the same as killing for money.”

The distinction feels important in a way I can’t quite articulate. “She’s a scientist. She thinks in terms of precision and evidence. How do I explain that sometimes the evidence suggests the best solution involves controlled violence?”

“You explain it the same way she would explain a complex research finding—with context, evidence, and respect for your audience’s intelligence.

” Dr. Martinez makes more notes. “You’re assuming she’ll judge your past based on oversimplified moral categories.

What if she evaluates it based on outcomes and necessity? ”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to me. Scientists are trained to analyze complex systems and draw conclusions based on data rather than emotion.

Maybe Dr. Lawson would approach my background the same way she approaches her research—objectively, thoroughly, and without predetermined judgments.

“What about the threat assessment issue?”

She arches a brow. “What specifically concerns you about that?”

“I automatically evaluate everyone I meet for potential danger. I notice things like concealed weapons, escape routes, and behavioral patterns that suggest hostile intent. Most people find that unsettling.”

Again, she nods. “Do you act on those assessments inappropriately?”

I think about the waiter incident and wince. “Sometimes.”

“What happened?”

“Last date ended when I disarmed a waiter who approached our table carrying a steak knife. My training kicked in before my brain caught up.”

Dr. Martinez doesn’t look surprised. “How did your date respond?”

“She called me paranoid and dangerous before leaving the restaurant.”

“Was the waiter actually threatening you?”

“No. He was bringing steak sauce and a knife.”

“So, your assessment was accurate—you correctly identified that he wasn’t a threat—but your response was disproportionate to the actual risk level.”

The clinical way she frames it makes the incident sound less like evidence of psychological instability and more like a calibration error. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“Calvin, hypervigilance is a survival trait that served you well in genuinely dangerous environments. The challenge is learning to modulate your responses based on current context rather than past experience.” She taps her pen thoughtfully.

“What do you know about Dr. Lawson’s background that might help you calibrate appropriately? ”

“She’s had her own dating challenges. Apparently, her last boyfriend suggested she ‘tone down her ambition’ if she wanted to find a mate.”

“How did she respond to that?”