Nicole should have felt patronized. She was a professional. She didn’t need tea therapy. Instead, she took a sip. It was, infuriatingly, the perfect temperature.

“Yeah?”

“Deal,” she said. “But you’re still taking out the hummus.”

Nicole stared at the tea. Then she stared at Gia, who was across the room, tongue poking out of her mouth as she airbrushed a flame onto a high-top sneaker. Gia didn’t look up, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“I’m rigid,” Nicole admitted. “I use data to control things because the alternative is admitting I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

Her breath caught.

“The tea,” Nicole said.