Page 1 of Paint Our Song (Cloverlily #1)

T he note left on his windshield reads, “Thanks for being a jackass.”

Miles groans. It’s written, in pencil, on the back of a receipt, and he knows it’s because of his horrible parking. In his defense, it’s not his fault. When he got here, all the parking spots were taken except for one, and all the other cars were parked wrong—most likely as a chain reaction from whoever did it first. The only place that was left forced him to park over a line, taking up two spots.

He was only going to be in the store to grab a snack, and thought he wouldn’t look too much of an ass when the other cars were clearly the reason.

To his horror, the two cars that were next to his are gone, and he definitely looks like an ass. “Sorry, stranger,” Miles sighs.

He had been in such a good mood, too. The line in the convenience store had been long, but there were teenagers playing “Garden” by Cloverlily, one of his all-time favorites. Miles had been singing along with them even when the guy in front of him didn’t look too amused with the music, but there’s never going to be a day that Miles didn’t sing along with that band. He’s been obsessed with them since he first heard their music.

Flipping the receipt, he sees that it’s a month-old purchase for a… cat keychain? He snorts, crumples the receipt, and tosses it in a nearby trash can. Miles looks around, wondering who left the note. The only movement he sees is a red car driving off. Miles squints. Stuck on the bumper is a sticker of a cartoon black cat. Not a keychain, but it’s the same theme.

The person must like cats. Miles chuckles.

It sucks that whoever this cat person is left that note, though. He’s still musing about it when his phone rings.

“Hi, Ma!” he answers as he climbs into his car. He glances out of the rear-view mirror, where there’s a middle-aged man shaking his head. Oops, he needs to get out before someone posts him on the internet.

“Hi!” Mom sounds cheerful, as usual. “I wanted to check up on you. Are you arriving soon?”

“Yes. Just doing a quick stopover at the gas station outside town.” Miles puts the phone on speaker and places it in the passenger seat. “I’ll stop by the inn first and see if anyone needs me.”

“Nonsense. You’re here on holiday.”

“No,” he corrects. “I’m here to help you out, and I’m staying indefinitely. I told you this!”

“Are you driving?” she asks.

“Uh. Yes. ”

She makes a disapproving noise. “Don’t do that. Will you pass by your dad before getting to the inn?”

“Of course.”

“Perfect. Say hi for me.”

“Sure!”

“Drive carefully—what’s that, Gabby?” Mom’s voice is muffled, as if she’s holding the phone away. Gabby, his long-time best friend, speaks in a quick and excited tone in the background.

There are shuffling sounds, then Gabby speaks more clearly. “Miles! Hurry! I have a surprise for you.”

“Yeah? What?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it? Hurry, before you miss it.”

He chuckles. Okay, then.

After she hangs up, he opens a bag of gummy worms he picked up at the gas station and pops one into his mouth. With nobody to keep him company, he turns up his stereo. His phone’s still connected to it, and his playlist blares. It’s the latest song from Cloverlily and he sings along horribly.

The drive to Ridgeford—the lakeside town where their inn is—is two hours from the city, and, as always, he takes a quick stop to Dad’s resting place. Right when he passes the sign that says he’s entering Ridgeford, Miles turns the corner and drives up the zig-zag streets that circle around various hills and lead to the town’s cemetery. His dad’s grave is on the farside, and he parks by the curb and rubs at his sternum as he walks up to it.

“Hi, Dad!” Crouching down, he pats the gravestone, ignoring the way his heart aches. There are some dead leaves, so he crouches down and plucks them away. He didn’t bring anything, but there are still fresh flowers there, most likely from Mom. She likes to leave behind flowers from her garden. “I’m taking a break from work to help out at the inn. You know I don’t know much about running it, but I’ll try my best.”

No response, only rustling leaves in the wind.

“The gallery agreed to let me take a break from painting commissions, as long as I attend the already scheduled exhibits and make new paintings for my wall. So, I’ll be here in town, but driving back when there’s an exhibit.”

Miles plops down on the dry grass, crossing his arms and trying to think of what else to update Dad about.

“Mom’s probably going to ask if I have a boyfriend,” he says, cocking his head with a frown. “I haven’t had one in years, and I guess it bugs her, but I’m still too young to be worrying about settling down, anyway. Right, Dad? I mean, you and Mom got married pretty young, but I’m sure you agree with me.” Miles scratches his neck. “What else, um. I guess that’s pretty much it. Miss you, Dad.”

He pats the gravestone again when he gets up, willing away the emptiness that claws at his chest. He needs to get ahold of himself and push the loneliness away, especially since he can’t let Mom see it.

When he gets back to his car, Miles glances at the dashboard mirror. His own reflection makes him think of Dad. After Dad passed, he started growing out his hair and usually ties it half-up—like Dad used to. Mom lets him grow it until his shoulders before insisting on a haircut.

He also has Dad’s brown eyes and naturally lean physique. Standing at six feet, Miles also got his height and is a head taller than Mom. She used to say that the only thing he inherited from her was her chattiness.

Everyone used to say that he was Dad’s clone, and that if he wanted to see what he’d look like older, he only had to look at Dad. It’s ironic, considering Dad’s image remains frozen at fifty.

***

The inn hasn’t changed since he last saw it. It’s become worn down over the decades, but it still has a very homey and warm feel to it. The sign above its maroon doors says “Hannah’s Inn”, and vines creep up its four storeys. Right across the inn, separated by the road, is the cozy two-story house Mom lives in—the home he grew up in—in a row of other similar houses.

There’s only one other person in the parking lot—a stranger, presumably a guest. He’s wearing sunglasses and leaning against the side of his car, scrolling through his phone, and there’s a guitar on the roof of his car.

He seems oddly familiar, and Miles stares at him for a good second before grabbing his bag from his car. Maybe he’s a regular? The guy’s cute, though Miles does find it odd that he’s wearing sunglasses and has a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. It seems like an overkill considering it’s late in the afternoon. He swears he knows that jet-black hair and the tattoo of flowers and vines peeking from underneath the left sleeve of his white shirt. And… damn, those biceps. Those biceps.

As if noticing that someone’s staring, the guy’s attention snaps up. Miles can’t quite see his eyes behind those sunglasses, but it’s clear he’s staring right in Miles’s direction.

Cursing under his breath, Miles turns away.

He pretends to be busy on his phone and starts humming along to the lyrics of “Garden,” the song that’s playing in his ears. In his peripheral vision, he sees the guy grab his guitar.

Miles hums, “I’m glad I found you.”

It’s awkward because the guy has to walk past Miles to get to the inn. Even more awkward is how he slows to a stop right next to Miles.

The guy says something, so Miles takes an earbud out. Now that they’re closer, Miles can see he’s about an inch taller than the guy. It doesn’t make him any less intimidating, though. Miles asks, “What’s that?

“Can you quit that?” the guy says. He shifts the guitar case he’s carrying over his shoulder.

“Quit what?”

“Humming that song.”

Miles blinks. “I… okay?”

What a weird guy, and also… What a rude guy. Miles doesn’t find him all that attractive anymore.

The guy turns away, and that’s when he sees it. His car keys, which he’s holding, hang from a cat keychain. He looks at the guy’s car and recognizes it as the one that had driven off earlier from the gas station outside town. The cat bumper sticker is unmistakable.

“Hey, wait!” Miles blurts out before his mind catches up with his mouth. The guy stops in his tracks, turning to stare at him, eyebrows drawn together. “Were you at the gas station, out on the freeway?”

“Huh?”

Okay, he should really drop this. The guy’s frown deepens, but he moves his hand and his keys dangle on that very specific keychain. Miles will definitely not let it go now. Also, he looks very familiar, and it’s eating him up. He can’t put a name to his face.

“I took up two parking spaces. I want to apologi—”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

He stares at the keychain. Then stares at the guy.

“Excuse me,” the guy says, turning away. He heaves his guitar bag higher on his shoulder, and their very short-lived conversation—if even that—is over as soon as it starts.

What the hell?

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 the deck, and Miles is relieved to know that have some guests.

“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 me sort 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… it clicks. 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 it very 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.

The elevator door shuts, and Gabby turns to him. She zeros in on him with a shocked expression. “What was that!?”

Oh, god. He digs the balls of his palms into his eyes, frustrated. Why the hell didn’t he recognize Calvin Lowe? He follows the entire band on social media, watches their lives, and plays their songs on a loop. You’d think a fan as big as him would recognize their guitarist, but no—he never thought he’d meet him in the parking lot of his inn.

It never occurred to him that was a possibility. It was the sunglasses and the ball cap, he tells himself, and also because his presence didn’t quite grab as much attention as it did when he was onstage.

“That was so uncool of me, damn it,” Miles groans. “Anyway… what was your surprise?”

“ That was my surprise!”

Miles groans again.

“He was here a few months ago with his family. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be bummed you missed him.” She gives him a look. “He booked a room this weekend, and since you were in town, I thought… oh, this’ll be a pleasant surprise! Since you did the art for their first album, I thought you’d have something to talk about.”

Right, that was also a huge reason he liked the band so much. Years ago, they got in touch with him to paint their debut album cover, and it pretty much jump-started his career. “He probably doesn’t know who their management hires for their album covers. Besides, he probably already thinks I’m a creep.”

“Nah. You’ve got a lot of time to work your charm on him. He’s probably here to unwind. Did you see the rumors?”

“What charm,” he mutters. “You mean that the band’s breaking up?” Yes, he’s seen them—he’s chosen to ignore them. Call him dramatic, but he wouldn’t be able to survive the heartache. “Those are rumors. Do you need my help with anything?”

“No. Go find your mom.”

“She’ll get a good laugh at the shit I pulled.”

“She will.”

Suddenly, realization dawns on him. “Shit!” He smacks the reception table loud enough to startle Gabby. “I shouldn’t have thrown that receipt!”

“What receipt?”

“It was a signed autograph…!” Miles groans and holds his head. A mean note written by Calvin Lowe himself? Even if he wouldn’t confirm it, Miles is convinced it’s him.

“What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t even answer her, he just walks away dazed.