She’d burn the lot and order brand new from the general store, she decided.

That was a bonus to having actual money in the bank. She no longer had to run calculations down to the penny to see if she could afford to treat herself to a latte. Her first few years off-island had been tight. City living on gallery associate and undiscovered artist salaries was…impossible. She’d gone without groceries one week, without a prescription the next week. But she became pretty damn ingenious when it came to keeping her bills paid while still scrounging up enough cash for art supplies.

When she’d sold her first Alessandra Ballard painting for $3,000, she’d celebrated by catching herself up on all her bills and then buying a hefty gift card to her favorite coffee shop so she could continue to treat herself when times were tough again. Then, because she was flying high and wanted to share her fortune, she’d taken another $200 in cash and stopped for every homeless person in a three-block radius around her apartment.

Success was meant to be shared. Jackpots were meant to be spread around.

Now…Well, now that initial success had grown beyond her wildest dreams. She could order a fancy new coat without obsessively checking her bank statement. Hell, she could probably order a coat for every person on the island without missing her own rent in Chicago.

It was still novel, she thought, letting herself into the cottage and stripping off her gear. The fact that she was living her dream and being wildly compensated for it.

She’d yet to tell her family. She’d had grand plans of flying them to Chicago for a gallery showing so she could impress the hell out of them. Then the accident had happened, and that sparkly reputation she’d worked so hard for was tarnished. Now if she told them, they’d just shoot her pitying looks and swap worried whispers behind her back.

She’d made it. Finally. But she’d waited too long to share the good news. Could a woman who couldn’t even hold a paintbrush still call herself an artist?

“Damn Spence and his excessive bleeding,” she muttered under her breath. She turned on some music—something soft and easy with blues and purples—and headed into the bathroom to wash away the red.

Finally clean, she changed into leggings and a sweater and was just ready to start seriously thinking about online shopping for Brick’s new snowmobile when there was a thunderous pounding at the door.

Only one man knocked like that. Brick.

He stood in her doorway, expression unreadable. But the vibe was loud and clear. The man was pissed off.

“Look, I’ll replace your snowmobile,” Remi said, before he could start a fight. “I’m sorry. It was irresponsible and it won’t happen again. I didn’t know Spence was going to go that far off course.”

Brick closed his eyes in that annoyingly patient way of his when he was trying to get his temper under control. “It’s fine,” he said, eyes still closed. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”