Page 3 of Storm over the Caribbean
“Yes, I know.” I glanced down at myself and my bulging belly. “I really should have gone with the green dress instead of the blue, right? It totally clashes with my eyes.”
“I…you…what…how…who…?”
I gave him a commiserating pat on the shoulder. “I sometimes have trouble waking up in the morning, too. Get some coffee. It’s on my new husband.”
And, whistling, I stepped past the desk and into my office. Ah…my office. Home sweet home. The place where my heart dwelled. The most amazing—
“You! Inside my office! Now!”
Ah. The sweet sound of domestic bliss.
“Coming, Dicky Darling! Coming!” I piped up.
From outside, I heard Mr Stone’s chair clatter to the ground as he toppled over and crashed to the floor. Grinning, I made my way to the connecting door leading to the office of my husband/boss. Not bothering to knock, I pushed open the door and strode into the room.
“A wonderful morning to you, Mr Ambrose!”
Silence.
Ah, wasn’t it a joy to be so warmly greeted by your husband?
Mr Ambrose sat behind his massive dark wood desk, fingers steepled. His icy eyes roamed up and down my figure, boring into me like icicle drills.
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”
“When you told me yesterday that you would have a surprise for me on our first day back at work, I didnotthink you meant showing up in a flowery sundress.”
“Yep!” I beamed. “My surprises can really be amazingly surprising, can’t they?”
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”
“Why are you in female attire?”
I cocked my head. “Would you have preferred me to show up as a heavily pregnant Mr Victor Linton, to explain to an entire entry hall full of people that the two of us are now married and you impregnated me? Not that I’d mind. Now that I think about it, that might actually be quite interesting. Wait here and I’ll get my trousers and tailcoat, and—”
“Stop!”
Already halfway back to the door, I halted and glanced back at him. I didnotsmirk. Most definitely not. “Yes, dear? Was there something you wanted?”
“You can remain as you are. I suppose your attire is…” He eyed me for a moment. “…adequate.”
A face-splitting grin spread across my visage. “Why, thank you so much for giving me such a charming compliment, Mr Ambrose.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Of course you didn’t.”
He sent me one of his patented arctic stares. “Documents on your desk. Shorthand to be transcribed into letters.Now.”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!”
Whistling again, I made my way back into my office and past the massive metal monster that was my typewriter, coming to a stop in front of my desk where, as announced, a pile of handwritten documents was waiting for me. Picking up a piece of paper densely filled with tiny scribbles, I stared down at it.
Shorthand?
