Page 1 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

London present day

Tennyson Lamont’s death was proving increasingly inconvenient. That Kipling had lost his job as a result of that ill-timed demise was particularly annoying.

Negotiations with television producers weren’t generally known for being effortless.

And when someone had endured a streak of bad luck like Kip had, the bargaining was almost destined to go badly.

He’d fully anticipated not getting the pay raise he’d asked for, perhaps even having less screen time in the next season of The Beau than he’d hoped for, but the result of his request had, by all counts, been far worse than that.

With one stroke of the pen, Tennyson—Kip’s most iconic role—had died, and Kip’s career had come to a screeching halt.

Half a year had passed, and he hadn’t booked a single role. Even his agent had stopped passing along auditions. In fact, his agent had stopped communicating with him at all . That, he knew from years in the industry, didn’t mean everything was awesome.

Still, he hadn’t been entirely forgotten.

He arrived at the Dorchester for a post-awards-show party. An awards show at which he’d been a nominee. For the role he’d been fired from. He hadn’t won.

It had been a stellar six months. Stellar.

He entered the party knowing he at least looked like a television star with potential.

Five seasons on one of the world’s biggest shows—a runaway hit set in England’s Regency era and credited with resurrecting the historical romance genre of television—had gained him a lot of cachet, and he was depending on every bit of it tonight.

The Dorchester’s largest ballroom was filled to the rafters with actors: some he’d worked with, some who’d wanted to work with him, and quite a few he hoped to work with at some point in the future.

There would also be directors, casting directors, and producers. This was the place to see and be seen.

He needed this.

What he didn’t need, though, was spotting Giselle Ridley the moment he stepped inside.

They’d dated for a year, often being referred to as one of Hollywood’s “it” couples.

Giselle lived in LA, and Kip had visited a lot while she’d been working on a long list of impressive projects.

She was from London, and he’d lived there while filming The Beau , so she had often visited him.

So they were sometimes referred to as one of London ’s “it” couples.

But, they were now going in different directions and ought to go in those directions without each other.

He knew that was the case because she’d told him so within a few hours of the announcement that his time on The Beau had come to an abrupt end.

He hadn’t had a lot of trouble reading between the lines.

“Going in different directions” was basically Giselle saying, “You are about to be nobody, and I don’t have time for ‘nobody.’”

Stellar.

Thankfully, Kip was an actor—a good one, despite his current lack of employment—and didn’t let his surprise and discomfort show.

He simply walked past Giselle, glancing in her direction with a brief look of indifference.

If anyone noticed—and with the way things were going, probably no one did—they would think he wasn’t bothered in the least. And the swiftness of his glance came with an additional benefit: he had no idea how she responded.

Willis Keaton, one of his costars from The Beau , stood nearby, so Kip stepped up to him with a friendly smile and, he hoped, a convincing lack of awkwardness.

A few in the cast had reached out to Kip when his contract had not been renewed.

Willis had been one of the few who’d stayed in touch. Barely, but still.

“Good to see you, Willis,” Kip said.

“Kipling.” Willis’s smile was a little strained, a little uncomfortable. “How have you been? We don’t hear much from you.”

The first thing anyone had said to him all night, and it was, “We don’t hear much from you.” That was industry talk for, “You’re on the brink of being a has-been.”

“I have a few things in the works.” That was a lie. “For the time being, I’m just enjoying my first time off in years.” Even more of a lie. He hadn’t been “enjoying” much of anything the last six months.

“I hope it is something where you can use your American accent,” someone in the group said. “We’re so used to hearing you speak like you’re British. It would be novel to hear your real voice.”

Though Kip couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, there was an insult in there somewhere.

The conversation swirled around him, pulling farther from him until he was entirely excluded from it. They were speaking of people he knew and about shows he had guest-starred on, but now, he wasn’t connected to any of it.

He wandered away from that group toward another, pausing just long enough at the bar to gather a spot of courage.

He recognized the casting director from Red, Red Rose , another historical drama, this one set in the 1600s rather than the 1800s. Period dramas were his bread and butter. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to garner some notice there.

When he slid himself into their group, the casting director asked the person standing next to her who he was.

He’d auditioned for her before. She’d even cast him in a couple of gigs.

Either she genuinely didn’t remember him, which made him think they ought to be dialing up emergency services with instructions to deliver her to the nearest A when you’re not, you’re not. That had likely first been said by a casting director.

Kip continued around the room. With each new encounter, people remembered him with an expression of disappointment because he “wasn’t doing anything anymore,” or they made a point of having forgotten him.

Salvation came in the form of Malcolm Winthrop. He was the star of The Beau , but they hadn’t met on set. They’d been friends since their university days, when Kip had left America behind for what he’d anticipated as a career-making London arts education.

Recent high school graduates were often adorably naive.

While Kip’s part on The Beau had never been as large as Malcolm’s, getting to work together had been one of Kip’s favorite things about doing the show.

Malcolm had offered him a few tips here and there on making his British accent more authentic.

Kip had introduced him to the woman who was now his wife.

That made them more or less even, he’d often joked.

Through everything that had happened in the last six months, through all the challenges no one knew had occurred in the year leading up to the worst days of Kip’s life, Malcolm had been there to support him.

Kip didn’t let his “I’m perfectly pleased with my career path because amazing things are happening for me” expression slip until he was standing next to Malcolm and facing away from everybody else.

“They are enjoying this,” Malcolm said with a knowing smile.

“Apparently, I didn’t earn enough good karma by choosing not to be a diva while I had the chance.”

Malcolm shook his head. “Karma does not exist in this dojo.” His expression remained perfectly laidback.

No one looking on would guess that they were having this conversation.

But Kip knew his friend too well not to recognize the concern in his eyes.

Of course, Vanity Fair had described those eyes as “hauntingly expressive pools of cerulean waters a person could drown in and die happy.” Vanity Fair had never written any odes to Kip’s eyes.

If Kip didn’t deeply like Malcolm, he would probably hate him.

“Have you managed to book anything?” Malcolm asked.

“Have you received any texts from me that weren’t just GIFs of famous people crying?” Kip tossed back.

“Fair point.”

“ Unfair point, really. I was passed over for a dog food commercial. All I had to say was, ‘Good boy.’ The casting director said I wasn’t articulate enough.” Kip gave him a dry sidelong look. “I wasn’t articulate enough to be having a conversation with a dog .”

“Were you using your American accent or your British one?”

“Are you saying one of those accents would be better suited to a conversation with a canine?”

“Have you tried cat food commercials?” Malcolm asked. “I suspect cats actually prefer it when we sound like idiots.”

For the first time since—well, since he had last been in company with Malcolm—Kip laughed.

Malcolm smiled more broadly. Vanity Fair had also said a lot of things about his smile, most of which Kipling refused to recall at the moment, knowing millions of people the world over had likely stitched them onto throw pillows.

Should Malcolm do another interview with any major publication, it would probably turn needlepoint into the next crafting craze.

“I have suggested you a few times when I’ve heard of roles you’d be a good fit for,” Malcolm said. “I think many directors and producers are waiting to see how you’re going to pivot after The Beau .”

“How am I supposed to pivot if no one will hire me?”

“I’ve worked in this industry since university, and I still don’t understand it,” Malcolm said.

“I’ve known you since university,” Kip countered, “and I still don’t understand why Jen married you.”

“As that is, without question, the most remarkably lucky thing that’s ever happened to me in my life, I have no intention of tempting fate by trying to make sense of it.”

“What are the chances you’ll toss some of that luck my way?” Kip asked.