Page 6 of Paint Our Song (Cloverlily #1)

“ W hat’s that for?” Calvin asks, staring at the keys in his hands. Miles presses the button for the fourth floor.

“It’s the keys for the rooftop garden.”

Calvin’s eyebrows raise. “There’s a rooftop garden?”

“Yeah.” He watches the arrows on top of the elevator move as it ascends. “It’s my mom’s and has a gorgeous view of the lake. We keep it locked since my mom doesn’t want her plants to get trampled on, but it’s an awesome place to relax. I go there to clear my mind.”

“… Oh.”

The elevator door opens, and Calvin doesn’t budge. He turns his head down a bit, eyes narrowed, and that’s when it occurs to Miles he’s basically kidnapped him. He didn’t even give him a choice.

“Do you want to see it?” Miles says with a huge grin. “Lots of privacy. You can work on your music there, and nobody will disturb you.”

“Would it be okay? ”

The key dangles in Miles’s hand. Yes, it’s more than okay. He’d let Calvin have the entire world if he asked.

“Yes, just don’t trample the plants,” Miles teases. “Don’t expect much, though. It’s literally a… rooftop deck. With plants.”

“I want to see.” Calvin’s voice is so soft, hesitant, and… hopeful. “I, um. I like quiet places.”

Miles grins. “Right this way.”

He leads the way to the staircase that’ll take them to the garden. There’s a single flight of stairs upward, and a locked exit on the very top with an off-limits sign hanging on the door.

“Will Dahlia really be alright with this?” Calvin asks. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Why do you know my mom’s name? Miles wants to ask. “She won’t mind.”

He unlocks the door and holds it open for Calvin, who gives him a look before stepping outside. His shoulders stiffen, and he slowly looks around. It’s dark, and he doesn’t seem impressed.

The door closes behind them, and Miles reaches for the light switch. The hanging lights that are tied to the walls and posts illuminate the garden, as well as Calvin, and Miles is suddenly very aware of how romantic this would seem if it were anyone else.

Mom’s always said the garden is only a simple hobby, something she tends to in her free time. However, it’s clear how much love she puts into it. There are rows of different plants and bushes, gorgeous flowers, and a wooden deck that Dad had built for her. On the deck is a table and three chairs.

Calvin walks toward the chest-high parapet and leans his arms on it. He stares at the view of the lake, and Miles follows his lead.

To their right, there’s Camilla Hotel, and Miles frowns at its majestic exterior.

“You okay?” Calvin asks, catching on to the way Miles is practically glaring at the hotel.

“Yes,” he lies.

After a beat of silence, Calvin says, “It’s nice.”

“Yeah, so, welcome to our inn’s best kept secret.”

“You’ve painted this place.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Oh. Yeah.” It’s one of the paintings framed in the lobby, and also one of his favorites. Dad had been so proud of it he had put it up almost immediately, telling anyone who would listen that his son was going to be a famous artist one day.

Calvin must have a really good memory, if he could recognize it that easily.

“Thanks for showing me,” Calvin says, voice so quiet Miles almost doesn’t hear it. He must think this is weird, too.

“I’ll let the reception know that you can take the keys any time. I’ll tell my mom too, in case she thinks you’re here to steal her plants.”

“Thank you.”

It’s dim enough that Miles doesn’t have a clear view of him, though he sees his shoulders relax. Finding a spot that’s a few feet away from Calvin, Miles leans on the parapet with his arms. He looks up. There are no stars in the sky tonight—maybe it’s going to rain. Miles says, softly and toward the lake, “Hey, Dad, Mom’s doing good.”

Calvin tilts his head. “What? ”

“Nothing.”

Even if he raises his eyebrows, Calvin doesn’t say more, simply goes back to staring at the lake, just like Miles is.

They’re both quiet for a long while, then Miles gets the strange sensation of being watched. When he turns to Calvin, Calvin’s eyes are on him. Calvin’s gaze travels upward, from his arms to his face, then he meets Miles’s eyes. Calvin jolts and purses his lips, then looks away again.

Are you checking me out? Miles almost teases. He thinks, almost hopefully, that maybe the rumors that Calvin is into men weren’t so untrue.

A series of beeping breaks the silence, and Calvin fumbles with his phone to get it to stop. Miles glimpses the name—Theo. Their lead singer. Calvin doesn’t answer, instead slightly turning away from Miles to text a response.

“I can go,” Miles says, taking a hint that Calvin’s not going to take the call with him around.

“No. Sorry. Give me a second.” He locks his phone and then shoves it in his pocket. Calvin turns back to him and runs a hand through his hair. “My bandmate is bugging me to back him up about how the song rights are split and shit. Among other things.”

“Your bandmate?”

Calvin seems to hesitate. Then, he says, “Theo, specifically.”

“He writes most of the lyrics, right?” Miles asks. He does remember Calvin saying it was a joint effort between the band, but in interviews, Theo’s vocal about pulling most of the work. “Does that mean he gets the most say? Is that how it works? ”

“No, that’s not how it works. And he doesn’t write the lyrics. I do.”

“You said you both did.”

Calvin gets a pinched look on his face. “I lied.”

“…Oh.”

Well, fuck. Miles isn’t sure what to do with this information. It’s as if he’s suddenly gotten very top-secret behind-the-scenes information.

Calvin, clearly frustrated, grits his teeth and holds the edge of the parapet so tight his knuckles go white. Miles’s stomach rolls. He should change the subject and recollect himself before he says something too much. He should choose a much safer thing to talk about. Like the inn’s menu for tomorrow. But… he can’t help it. “So… you write your band’s songs. Not Theo Reid.”

“Yes.” Calvin shifts in his spot. “I write most of our songs. Theo has different strengths. He enjoys performing, not writing songs.”

“Then why does he say he writes all your songs?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

“Never mind,” Miles says.

Calvin clears his throat. “By the way, I’ve been thinking. It’s about your inn.”

“What about it?”

“Your inn doesn’t have much of an online presence. It’s mostly word-of-mouth, or backpackers who turn up in Ridgeford and spot it by chance. What do you know about SEO?”

He wonders if Calvin can see how clueless he looks with how dark it is. “I have no idea what SEO is. ”

“Search engine optimization… when a potential client searches Ridgeford on the internet, or related things, your inn’s website should rank high. You can also do Facebook ads, Google ads… there are a lot of things you can do. Our manager talks about it a lot, even if we’re not in charge of most of those things. We’ve got a digital marketer on our team.”

These are mostly words he’s not familiar with. “We don’t have a website. Or a digital marketer.” Or a budget . He’d put all his savings on the inn though, if his mom would let him.

It’s impressive that Calvin knows all these terms and ideas—who knew the guitarist of a famous pop rock band was this techy?

“You need to improve your digital presence. You can’t rely on loyal customers, eventually you’re going to have to find new ones,” Calvin says. “And all the new ones have only heard of Camilla Hotel. Did you know they hire a lot of influencers? They give out stays for influencers who have a lot of reach.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re right.” Miles sighs and scratches the back of his head, frustrated. “How did you know about their deals with influencers?”

“I told you, they’re one of our sponsors.”

“Yeah, I think I see your bandmates post about their stays at Camilla Hotels now and then. Why don’t you post about them?”

“I don’t like social media.”

It’s not a surprise. Miles is well aware of that fact, since he follows him—and all the other members of Cloverlily. They’ve got official accounts that are likely run by a social media manager that posts clips and segments of their music videos and other public appearances. On their personal accounts, Theo is the most active out of all of them. Their bassist and their drummer also post quite regularly. Still—

“You sounded like you knew a lot about social media,” Miles points out.

“Because our management made us take these stupid crash courses about social media when we were starting out. We had to learn about going viral and all that. It bugs them that I hate it.”

Calvin barely posts—and when he does, it’s often as if he’s been threatened to do it, posting photos of stages or the band with vague one-liners. He doesn’t post anything about his personal life, or small updates showing what he’s up to.

“Yeah, you’re awful at it,” he says, nodding. “You post… what, once every three months? I think your last post was a blurry instant noodle cup. What’s that about?”

Calvin stares. “How do you even know that?”

“Because I follow you? I’m a huge fan?” Does Calvin still not believe him?

“It’s unsettling that you’re familiar with my social media habits.”

“I feel like we’ve already established that I’m a huge fan of your band. Why do I get the impression that you’re not aware of how famous you are?”

“I’m not famous.”

It’d be rude to laugh at Calvin’s disconnection with reality, so Miles makes a strong attempt not to. The corner of his mouth twitches under the effort and he lets out a soft wheeze, and Calvin scowls.

“You’re famous,” Miles states. “You have so many followers and you don’t even try.”

“You’ve got eighty thousand followers. You should post about the inn. Say it’s where you get your inspiration from.”

“I do sometimes, but I guess it’s not enough to bring a steady amount of bookings in. Maybe because the inn doesn’t have an online presence like you said? We’re on some booking site, but there’s not much information on there aside from being able to reserve dates. Also, you’re one to talk. You have five hundred thou—” Miles cuts himself off. “How do you know how many followers I have? Oh my god, Gabby’s right. You’re my fan, aren’t you? We’re each other’s fans?”

“…Uh.”

Miles adds, “…Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’re annoying. Goodbye. Thank you for showing me the roof garden.” And, with that, Calvin turns toward the staircase. There’s a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Wait.” Without thinking, he grabs Calvin’s arm. He flinches under Miles’s hold, so he lets go immediately, and Calvin gives him an odd look. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what?”

“You know…” He waves around, as if that would explain anything. It doesn’t. “Helping me think of ideas for the inn. It means a lot.”

For a moment, Calvin’s quiet. Then, he says, softly, “Sure.”

His back to the hanging lights, Calvin’s face is mostly covered in shadows. Still, Miles sees how he tips his chin down as if embarrassed. Miles’s heart jumps, which is something he should probably unpack.

“See you around,” Miles says, rather awkwardly.

“See you.” Calvin nods, and Miles watches him leave.

What the hell’s going on? He can’t possibly be getting a crush on Calvin. Not that he hasn’t had one on him for the longest time already, but it’s normal to crush on celebrities.

It was much less daunting when he thought he was cute watching him through a screen.

“Jesus Christ,” Miles groans and scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t have time to get distracted by silly crushes. He’s got an inn to save.

First things first—he had to establish their social media accounts and a website, apparently.

***

Miles sits by the edge of a pier, swinging his feet back and forth over the water. There are birds chirping as they play in the lake and the newly risen sun casts a nice orange glow on the lake.

There’s a sketchbook on Miles’s lap, open on a blank page. Sulking because he can’t seem to think of what to draw, he plays with a pencil and taps it against the paper.

Over the weekend, he got an email from his gallery manager reminding him that he needs to be in the city for next weekend’s exhibit—and that he needs to paint new things for his wall in the gallery.

Fuck.

He’s trying, really. Miles takes a lot of photos of different places in Ridgeford for inspiration, but nothing works. His mind is blank, and so is his sketchbook. There’s too much on his mind—upcoming payment dues, getting more bookings, the inn’s lack of staff, and Mom’s retirement.

There are some boats out on the lake; the skies are clear, and Miles should sketch this. He doesn’t. Every time he puts the pencil down on the paper, he simply doesn’t feel it. Damn, the gallery’s going to kick him out—if there’s nothing up on his wall, then they’re not going to get any profits from him. After all, they did agree to let him take a break from commissions as long as he still sent in original pieces.

Something in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and Miles turns to see Calvin jogging along the shore. He’s a good distance from where Miles is sitting on the pier, and Miles goes unnoticed.

Miles stares, strangely captivated. Calvin has headphones on and is in a hoodie and sweatpants. He wipes off sweat from his forehead and goes past him at an impressive speed. Calvin makes everything look so effortless.

Is there anything he can’t do? He writes the best songs; he plays the guitar, and he can sing. Calvin’s also so incredibly smart that he throws around words like search engine optimization and financial projections—words that go over Miles’s head.

After about a few minutes, Calvin runs past him again, this time in the opposite direction. Miles twirls the pencil in his fingers and watches. He looks really nice running along the shore with the trees of various shades behind him. It’s unfair how he puts life to everything around him, like he did some days ago when he played at the bonfire. Also, when he was at the roof garden and the hanging lights illuminated his profile in a strangely enticing glow.

It’s not until Miles has sketched him jogging through the shore, trees surrounding him, that he realizes he might have gotten over his artist’s block. At least for now.