“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“Neither did I.” Sophia sank lower and kicked her legs out with ample room to spare. “My Italian grandmother was Catholic. Maybe it’s in the bloodline, but don’t you just feel like hot baths are a religious experience?”

“I’m Anglican.”

“Of course you are.”

Vic laughed lightly. She wrapped one underwater arm around Sophia’s waist, pulling her back until she settled into the space between her legs, so they reclined, back to front, slick and submerged. A deep moan escaped her throat as she sank into the position, completely ensconced with woman and water. Then when she thought nothing could improve upon the perfection of her current situation, Vic reached over and lifted a glass of red wine from a table next to the tub, brought it around Sophia’s body, and placed it neatly in her hand.

“I could die right here and not mind.”

Victoria nipped at her ear. “Please don’t.”

“Would you miss me?”

“Terribly; also, it would be an utter shit storm in the press.”

A little bubble of laugher escaped her lips. She’d spent nearly two weeks’ worth of nights with this woman and still had not come to expect those irreverent asides.

“How was Brian today?”

“The worst.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how he keeps getting work. I mean, I do know how he got work at first.”

“Explain it to me please, because I haven’t figured it out.”

“His father’s a three-time Oscar winner who sits on the board of multiple film festivals and grant-funding organisations, which makes Brian one of the most pedigreed trust fund babies in Hollywood.”

“Ah.” Vic nodded. “Trust fund babies are the worst.”

Sophia snorted. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“The jury’s still out on that one, but please continue.”

“Anyway, Brian’s last name opened a lot of doors for him, but this is his tenth film. Shouldn’t his utter mediocrity have become painfully obvious to everyone by now?”

“I’ve found mediocrity to be a rather high bar for many white, upper-class males. Our government is full of them.”

“Ours, too,” Sophia admitted, “but we’re not talking about trivial things like ruling countries. We’re supposed to be artists, and Brian can barely paint by number.”

“Is he hurting the production?”

“Like actually hurting?” She blew out a slow breath. “I don’t know, but he’s not doing anything to elevate it. He lacks vision. His camera shots are so flat and static we might as well be shooting a ’70s sitcom. I don’t know why he booked a full arsenal of Steadicams when he insists on laying down tracks and tripods at a respectable distance. And I can only do so much to overcompensate for lacklustre . . . ugh. Do you even want to hear this?”