Chapter Text
Camille made her excuses, slung her bag over her shoulder and exited La Kaz, pointedly ignoring the disbelieving looks she was receiving from both her colleagues and the raised eyebrow from her Catherine.
She couldn't blame them really: they all knew her well enough to be unconvinced that she was simply in need of an early night.
They probably all knew her well enough to be able to accurately perceive her true motives behind leaving her mother's bar after only halfl a beer.
Richard had declined the offer of drinks that evening, claiming that he was busy with a new book.
However, his detective sergeant had not been taken in by this excuse (which had, of course, been accompanied by an awkward laugh and an apparently infernal itch on the back of his neck).
Furthermore, Honore's police force had just solved an extremely complex case, which had involved a case of mistaken identity as well as 2 homicides and a minor robbery.
The drinks were well deserved - if Richard hadn't declined.
Camille knew she was being nosey when she enlighten the defender upon arrival at her boss' shack, but she was interested in his doings, for reasons she wasn't quite prepared to admit to herself just yet.
She decided to blatantly ignore the tiny pang of guilty nervousness she felt at turning up uninvited, and to instead approach the situation with her classic happy-go-lucky attitude.
She strolled cautiously around the side of the bungalow to stand on the verandah.
Much to her surprise, all the verandah doors were wide open - unusually uncharacteristic for Richard, considering he hated all things beach.
The open doors also resulted in Camille being able to hear all the noise coming from inside the shack - and there was a lot
She heard a breathless curse and peculiar rustling noises, similar to those you hear when you receive a parcel in the mail.
As if to confirm her suspicions, Richard burst past the bed and rammed into the desk.
The first thing she noticed - an item quite hard to miss - was the box. It was tall and rectangular and almost bigger than Richard himself.
The second thing she noticed (something she didn't dismiss as quickly as the box) was his bare chest.
He appeared to only be wearing a pair of shorts, clothing she had no idea he even owned.
She hated to admit it, but he was mesmerising; pale skin lesser with dark hairs scattered across it.
She stared at his chest for a long time, embedding it into her memory for future reference.
"Shit."
The softly muttered curse awoke her from her daydream.
Richard had turned the box lengthways, and was examining it, from one end to the other, brows furrowed in a frown.
Camille smiled fondly.
He was so clumsy, so pedantic, so childish and ever so English, but also so kind and delicate.
A soft squeak interrupted her thoughts.
And then a crash.
She looked up.
Richard had dropped the box and was staring at her with an expression of what looked like horror and embarrassment on his face.
"Hi Sir."
She couldn't keep the smirk from her voice.