Page 3 of Paint Our Song

Miles shuts his car door as the other guy enters the inn and disappears from his view, and here’s hoping they don’t have to cross paths again. Still, there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, and he racks his brain, trying to remember where he’s seen the guy before.

He also takes it as a slight that the guy didn’t like his choice of music. Cloverlily’s God-sent and the unbelievably rude guy was missing out. Ironic, because one would think a guy lugging a guitar around would have good taste in music.

Miles enters the inn and, besides the weirdly grouchy guest, the lobby’s empty. Even the lounge by their small cafe is empty. Past the huge windows facing the lake, there are some kids playing out on thedeck, and Miles is relieved to know that havesomeguests.

“Miles!” calls a very familiar voice.

Miles squeaks, bracing himself, and a small figure wraps him in a tight and warm hug. Gabby Sanchez, long-time friend and one of the inn’s receptionists, grins. The color-of-the-month is apparently bright purple, since that’s what her hair is. Aside from that, she looks the same as when they last saw each other—huge doe eyes, nails that have been polished to match her hair, and a neon pink undershirt peeking from underneath the inn’s standard uniform.

“Hey!” Gabby squeals, hugging him even tighter. “I was wondering when you’d arrive!”

“Hi.” Laughing, he pats her shoulder, and she lets go of him. “What’s up?”

“Well, you came at a great time to catch up. It’s a slow day.” Theatrically, she gestures at the emptiness of the lobby. Across the room, there are two enormous doors that lead to the dining room. It seems quiet, too. “As always,” she adds.

“Um,” calls a voice. They both turn toward it, to find the guy in sunglasses standing by the reception. To his credit, he seems embarrassed about interrupting their conversation. “Sorry, Gabby. Mind checking me in?”

Her eyes widen, and she nods, rushing behind the counter. “Hi! Sorry about that!”

The way the guest knows Gabby by her name without even glancing at her tag means he is most likely a repeat customer. That must be why he recognizes him. Miles follows Gabby behind the counter.

“Glad to have you back.” Gabby grabs a keycard. “Alright, let mesort things out for you.”

Puzzled, Miles leans over, avoiding the way the guest is staring at them. He mumbles, “Have you changed the protocol? Aren’t you supposed to get identification before programming the keycard? How do you even know his booking details?”

The guest tips his chin down as his lips curve into a frown.

“Uh, I know who he is,” she says.

“…Alright.”

The guest stares at him. At least he assumes he’s staring. Who even wears sunglasses indoors? And a ball cap?

“Here we go.” The keyboard clacks under her fingers. When she enters his name… itclicks.It makes sense now why she didn’t need to take his ID, repeat customer or not.

Calvin Lowe.

“Hey! You’re Calvin Lowe!” Miles exclaims, stunned. He knows that name. He knows itvery well.“Cloverlily’s guitarist! Oh, wow, I’m a huge fan!”

Calvin Lowe, guitarist of his favorite band, is standing right there! And whose expression is morphing into awkwardness. His shoulders stiffen, and he takes a slight step back, clearly agitated by the eureka moment.

He didn’t mean to be so loud about it, and it’s a good thing the lobby’s empty because nobody’s around to hear his outburst… except for Gabby, whose mouth hangs open in surprise.

… Oops. That was not very professional or discrete of him.

“Can you not yell my name?” Calvin mumbles.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Sighing and shaking her head, Gabby returns to the computer. She clicks some keys and swipes a room card against a small machine. The machine beeps, and she hands the card to Calvin over the counter. She says in a sweet and light voice, “Your room is 207. Let me call someone to assist you with your luggage.”

Miles keeps quiet, not adding anything to her spiel. He’s not sure he wants Calvin to think he’s the son of this inn’s owner, or that he’s part of the staff. If he’s lucky, he’ll think he’s just a crazy friend of Gabby’s who has absolutely nothing to do with the inn.

“Thanks.” He nods. “No need. I’ll take my luggage.”

Is it Miles’s imagination or did he glance at him, seemingly suspicious? What, did he think he was going to run off with his luggage like some unhinged fan? He wouldn’t do that. He’s not a fast enough runner.

Without giving Gabby a chance to say more, Calvin makes his way toward the elevators. The silence from when he presses the elevator’s button, waits for it, and gets in is deafening. Miles burns all the way to his ears, horrified and embarrassed.