Page 2 of Paint Our Song (Cloverlily #1)

M om is not in the dining room, on the deck, or at the lake. He checks the rooftop garden—Mom’s favorite place—and it’s empty. Sighing, he sends her a text asking where she is and gets no response. She’s terrible with technology; he wouldn’t be surprised if she forgot she even had a phone.

He’s about to give up and head to the house when he remembers her office at the back of the building. When he gets there, a small room at the back with a sign that says ‘Management’, he finds it unlocked, but Mom is nowhere to be seen. He takes his phone out and texts her, and takes a seat by her worn-down office chair while he waits.

The office is stuffy, especially with the curtains currently drawn, blocking the view of the lake from the window. There are bookshelves with titles that used to belong to Dad, and potted plants that are Mom’s addition. It’s endearing how the office has both their personalities .

He sends a quick voice message to Mom, which is pretty much just him whining. “Maaa, where are you? I told you I was getting here soon.”

After waiting another five minutes without a response, he gives up and grabs a pen. He opens draws to search around for paper, finding binders and documents, but no notepads. Absently, he wonders if they should design notepads for the inn with their logo on it. Other inns did that, right?

He gets to the lowermost drawer, and yanks it open. There’s a stack of papers stacked in it, and the topmost sheet immediately catches his attention.

There on the paper, in big red letters, are the words “Payment Overdue.” Even looking at the words is nerve-wracking. Frowning, he scans over the page. It’s a warning from the bank saying that if they don’t settle their accounts soon, further action will be taken.

He has no idea what the next steps would be, but it doesn’t sound good. At all.

“Oh god,” he mutters, face going white as he goes to the next page. The amount they owe the bank is ridiculously big, and the inn is listed as their collateral. Miles hunches over the pages, his hands cold.

Putting the letter away, he goes through the other pages in the drawer—financial reports—and he goes over the tables and numbers. With every moment that passes, he has a harder time breathing. His heart pounds in his chest.

He only really found out the inn needed a lot of help when a patron from the gallery mentioned he had visited, and that it had been very quiet, and then made a passing statement about how they could probably hire more staff. Miles had rung Gabby up right away, and after a lot of prodding, she admitted to him that she didn’t know the specifics, but she was pretty sure their finances were dire. Miles decided to head home indefinitely after that conversation.

Still, he knew the inn was having a hard time, but he didn’t know it was this bad.

He should have paid more attention. Miles should have spent more time here, noticing things, instead of only driving back during the holidays and long weekends. He’s always said he preferred that Mom and Gabby visit him in the city instead of the other way around, and while that was mostly because the inn reminded him too much of Dad, he should have at least prodded them more about how everything was going.

The door opens, and Mom walks in. “Hello! Gabby said you’d be here. I went downtown to pick up some of your favorite sweets—”

“Ma?” Miles holds the papers up. Eyebrows knit together and his mouth a thin line, he doesn’t try to hide how upset he is. “What is this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She blanches, her fingers going straight for the pendant hanging from her neck. Dad gave her that pendant decades ago, and she always fiddles with it when anxious. Mom’s silent for a long moment, and he waits. Finally, she sits by the chair across the desk. There are lines on her forehead that he has never noticed before, and just like that, she seems much older and tired than he ever realized.

“Your father told me not to tell you.”

“Has this been happening since Dad was here? ”

“The inn has been struggling, even before your dad… left. We had to take out loans for repairs and renovations, and to keep our staff with us. It was getting better, but then your dad got sick… and we had to take out more loans.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your father asked me not to,” she repeats.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, a mixture of surprise and anger taking over, and the latter’s directed at himself. How stupid could he have been? He should have seen all the signs.

“Seriously? Why hide this from me?” he asks. “I could have helped more.”

“We’ve been slowly paying it off,” she says. “But with the recent struggles…” She must mean the new hotel that’s taking all the prospective guests. “Well, we’re struggling all over again. And I’m… well, I’ve never been suited to run an inn. That was all your dad.”

“You’re alright with the bank taking the inn?”

She grips her armchair so hard her knuckles are practically white. “Of course I wouldn’t be alright with that, but there are some things that are unavoidable. We were doing okay; we were paying back the loans, but then it went downhill quickly in the last few months.”

“If I had taken up a business course, or marketing, or didn’t go to the city—”

“Your dad wanted you to pursue your art degree,” she says, voice rising a bit. “It’s what made you happy.”

“I could’ve done both,” he states with more confidence than he feels.

“No.” She shakes her head. “You didn’t want to stay in Ridgeford— all you did was talk about art school, and we could tell that running the inn wasn’t in your plans.”

A cold sensation washes over him. He leans back and says in a low voice, “Is this my fault…?”

“Absolutely not!” Mom suddenly rises from her seat. He hasn’t seen her lose her cool like this in a very long time, and it’s alarming. “That’s exactly why your dad didn’t want to tell you about how much the inn’s struggling. He knew you’d blame yourself. Just because it was your dad’s dream doesn’t mean it has to be yours.”

“I know you didn’t want to worry me, and there’s not much I can actually do, but Dad’s gone.” Miles scrubs a hand over his face. “You need to tell me these things so I can help you. This isn’t something you should be taking on alone.”

She rounds the table and takes the papers from him, stuffing them back in the drawer where he found them. “You’re being ridiculous. You need to be living your life in the city, focusing on your career. This isn’t something you even need to think about.”

“Okay, okay.” He can tell this conversation won’t go anywhere, so he concedes. Mom draws the curtains and opens the windows and a gust of fresh air enters the room, drawing in the scent of leaves and the sound of kids playing by the lake.

“Your dad made me promise that if there was nothing else that could be done, I would sell the inn and retire.” She gives him a weak smile. “I’m getting too old. I’ve tried my best, but this inn was your dad’s… It was never mine.”

But that was it, wasn’t it? This inn was Dad.

It’s the piece of him he left behind. There are memories of him in every corner, and his personality shines through here. He frowns, refusing to acknowledge how his eyes sting.

“You’d sell the inn?” he asks in a weak voice.

“No… maybe. That’s the last resort. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, honey. We… we both need to move forward.” Hesitatingly, she shrugs. It makes his insides churn. “I would be able to tend to my garden all day, maybe finally take that trip to Europe.”

She chuckles, but he can tell she’s not joking. Mom’s been talking about the trip for years now.

There’s a hand on his cheek. Mom says, “I’ll be okay, I promise. What’s important to me is not this silly inn, but that you’re happy. You won’t even bring any boyfriends home for me to meet. I worry about you.”

His face burns red, and he pulls away from her hand. Not this again. It’s such a jarring jump of topic, but he should’ve expected it. He has a hunch that Mom brings up his love life—or lack thereof—all the time to throw him off-track. Refusing to take the bait, he says nothing.

“Now go,” Mom says. “You’ve been driving for two hours. Go home.”

“I was planning to check if they needed anything in the dining room.”

“No need. Go home. ”

“…Okay,” he lies.

***

He, in fact, does not go home.

Miles heads to the dining room, thinking they might need some help with dinner service. Even if there are barely any guests, their staff numbers are low and he’s expecting the worst. He realizes he’s only overthinking when he gets to the dining room, and it’s quieter than he’s ever seen it.

There’s barely anyone there. There’s a single waiter grabbing some menus from the counter, and only a couple of tables occupied. He peeks at the kitchen, greeting old faces, and finds out they’re having his favorite carbonara today as the special. Awesome.

“How can I help?” he asks the single wait staff.

The boy, probably a part-time student, judging from how young he is, frowns. “Who are you?”

“Oh. I’m Miles. My family owns the inn. I wanted to see if you needed help with anything.”

“Table three hasn’t ordered yet,” he says, passively. “I was just about to bring the menu to him.”

“Got it.” He grabs the menu, but when he turns around, he freezes immediately when he sees who exactly is at table three.

Calvin Lowe, clearly recognizable without his sunglasses, sits with his chin resting on his hand as he stares out the window with a bored expression. Shit. Miles spins around to give the menu back to the part-time student, but the boy’s already walking off to god-knows-where.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Fine. His family owns this inn, and he’s here to help—not run away at the sight of one very intimidating guitarist. He can do this. Calvin doesn’t seem to notice his presence at all as he approaches.

“Hello.” Miles hands him the menu.

Calvin startles and reaches out for the menu. “Thanks,” he says, then looks up to see Miles, and his blank expression devolves into a very obvious frown. “Oh. It’s you.”

I can do this. I can do this.

Miles nods. “Yeah, hi, I work here. Rather, my family owns the place. Our special for tonight is carbonara. Would you like to try it?”

“A cup of coffee, please.” Calvin attempts to give the menu back.

“Coffee… at this hour?” He chuckles, staring out the window. The sun’s already setting. Miles puts a hand against the edge of the menu and gently pushes it back—now they’re two guys pushing a menu at each other, which Miles finds alarmingly hilarious. “If you don’t want pasta, we’ve got other things. What are you in the mood for?”

Narrowing his eyes, Calvin purses his lips into a straight line. He gives up and lets go of the menu, and Miles fumbles to catch it before it can fall to the floor.

“Coffee, please.” Calvin returns his attention to the window.

Miles admits that the lake is a captivating view. Still, he’s not a fan of being dismissed like this.

“Okay. Fine. Coffee,” Miles mutters. “There’s a bonfire this Friday. The inn sells some drinks and snacks, though the locals also bring a lot of free stuff. There’s usually music, too.”

Calvin slowly looks back at him.

He had always known that Calvin is the quieter one of the band, but this is insane. Not even a grunt, to acknowledge someone’s talking to him?

“You could play, too.” Miles mimics playing a guitar, using the menu as a prop. “It’ll be fun.”

“No, thank you.”

“Why? What are you doing Friday night?” And… shit. Why’d he ask that? He sounds like a dorky fan. A stalker, even.

“Why do you need to know?”

Miles clutches at his chest and pretends to be offended. He puts on the most convincing, hurt expression he can muster as he rallies for an excuse. “It’s my job to make sure you’re having a great stay at our inn. So, what are you up to? Want me to book a sailboat for you? There’s a great fishing spot about half an hour out.”

“I enjoy doing nothing. That’s what I like about this place.”

“You can’t possibly be doing nothing. What, do you coop up in your room all day when you’re in town?”

Holy fuck. What is wrong with him? Stop talking, you moron.

Calvin purses his lips in response. Miles almost thinks he’s going to tell him to fuck off, and honestly, maybe he needs to hear that.

Surprisingly, Calvin indulges him and actually answers the question.

“I go to the gym downtown.” That was news. He didn’t even know there was a gym downtown. “I watch shows, go to the bookstore, hang out by the lake.” Hesitating, and in a much lower voice, he mutters, “I write.”

“You write? Like, books?”

Calvin says, tone flat, “Lyrics.”

“Oh, wow, really?” Miles almost drops the menu. “You’ re the lyricist? I thought that was all Theo Reid. He’s amazing, by the way. His singing is out of this world. Though, I had no idea it was you who wrote the lyrics of your songs.”

Calvin’s expression twists. “That’s—” He cuts himself off and sighs. “It’s a joint effort.”

“Cool,” he chirps.

“Yeah. Um. So, if you don’t mind, I’d love a coffee.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” For some reason, Miles still doesn’t move. His brain needs to reboot.

“Miles!” Gabby’s voice calls. She strides up to him and hooks an arm around his. Thank fuck—a savior. “Are you bugging our VIP?”

Calvin’s eyes widen, and he looks between the two of them. “Your name is Miles? Are you the one who did the paintings in the lobby?”

“Huh?” Miles points a finger at himself. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Gabby grins wide. “He did your debut album’s cover, too, but he wasn’t sure you’d know his name.”

“I know—” Calvin stops himself and coughs, turning away. He seems annoyed at this news, which is confusing. And honestly, kind of offensive. “Um. Yeah. I know who you are.”

Miles gawks for a moment too long until Gabby prods him with an elbow.

“Okay. I’ll go get your coffee.” He turns away, trying to hide his bewilderment at that entire exchange. Behind him, he hears a chair being pulled out—and spots Gabby taking the seat across from Calvin. He seems unperturbed by her, even going so far as giving her a slight smile.

Well. He’s not rude to Gabby, at least.

Cloverlily’s guitarist is a piece of work, and he shatters the image that Miles has had of the band for years.

Miles tells himself not to dwell on it too much.

Instead, he spends the rest of the night replaying everything that happened.