Page 6 of The Photograph

James and his childhood sweetheart, Jane, have been dating since high school. It’s ten years this year.

I peer through the kitchen door at the people starting to flow in and settle in at their desks.

“It’s good to be back in the office. We need to chat about Samsung.”

“Yeah, and about the negotiations for the extra space,” James says, waving his hand. “This place is getting so overcrowded. About to get more so, too.”

My heart sinks. This cozy workspace is my happy place. Splitting us over two floors will be … I nod absently as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

“I’ve got to bring the new hires up to speed as well,” I say.

Ten notifications are sitting in my Grinder app, alongside a notification for a photo. Oh, God. That’s never good news. People send too many dick pics. But as I open it, my jaw drops.

It’s a picture of a guy’s ankle. The lighting is … dark, sunlight falling across a foot and part of a hand that has just finished tying a shoelace and is pulling back. Smart polished shoes, navy pants hitched up over a black sock with a logo on it. A tattoo peeks out from the top of the fabric. It’s close up, moodily shot, and artistic. I zoom in on the tattoo. What the hell is that?

James laughs, eyes on my face. Does he think I’m looking at something rude? Spinning my phone around, I hold it up for him and his eyebrows go up to his hairline.

“What is that mark on his leg?” he says, peering at the screen.

“No idea.”

We both lean in to examine it.

“Looks like writing to me,” he mutters, zooming in. “Arabic, Hebrew maybe? Who’s it from?”

I glance at the name. “God, it’s that guy from last night.”

James eyes me sideways. “I like his style. Slow, hunh? This could be a whole new experience for you.” And he punches my arm, the asshole.

Rolling my eyes, I study the picture again. The skin is smooth, not a hint of hair. I can count on one hand the guys that remove the hairs on their legs, and they’re all drag queens. Maybe Alex has a secret life as a drag queen? That’d be fun. Has he removed hair from anywhere else? I can’t stop staring at it: the perfect crease along the front of his pants, the high shine on the shoes. How do you respond to something like this? It’s completely outside my playbook.

Maybe he’s a serial killer and this is the way he reels all his victims in.

“I hope we did a good job on the new recruits. This next security update is the big one,” James says, dragging me back to reality.

“Yeah, we’ve got to get it right across their entire suite of phones.” Ha! No pressure, Des.

Artie, one of our engineers, sticks his head into the kitchen. “You got time to brief the new hires who are starting today?”

I take a gulp of coffee and shove my phone in my pocket and turn to Artie. “Sure,” I say.

I’ll deal with that photo later.

When I step into the glass cube that is the conference room and our only meeting place in the office, a large hairy guy is holding court, talking about all the work he did for Motorola in Italy and how he understands better than anyone a phone’s internal workings. He’s got thick arms, a heavy accent, and a gold chain on his wrist that keeps catching the light as he waves his hands around. There’s dark chest hair peeking above a white shirt. A macho male who loves the sound of his own voice, no doubt. And Iknowwho he is: I read all the résumés of today’s new starts on the plane overnight on Thursday. And his résumé was impressive, but as I study him out of the corner of my eye, all I can think is:I could do without this guy today.

Scanning the room, l count ten guys and two women. And I’ve come all the way back from Korea to settle them in, bring them up to speed, and get them all working sweetly together.

“I’ve worked for Samsung itself,” another guy says, no doubt not wanting to be outdone by Mr. Hairy.Can I call him that?No, Des, you can’t, because one day you’ll accidentally say it to his face and be outed as having dreadful, un-PC names for people.So, I’m a judgmental asshole, shoot me. And how much of this conversation have I missed? Not sure I like the macho “who’s the kingpin?”’ vibe happening here.

“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands. “Welcome! My name’s Des and I’m head of operations here. I’m going to go over our Samsung plan for the next six months this morning to bring you all up to speed on where we’re headed. Artie”—I gesture to where he’s standing by the wall—“will also spend some time going through the progress to date and the technical systems we use.”

Mr. Hairy, who I think is named Rodrigo, glowers at me like he’s not happy that I cut across his diatribe. Goddammit. Some guys are assholes. I hope he isn’t one of them and this posturing bullshit calms down. Pulling up the Samsung spreadsheet on the projector screen on the conference room wall, I study the timelines.

“They’re doing this onspreadsheets?” a guy whispers to the girl next to him.

“Don’t you have project planning software?” someone asks.

When I turn around, the questioner is a nerdy-looking man whose shirt seams are stretched over a rather large stomach.

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