As he got closer, he saw that Spencer was lying down, his head in Remi’s lap. That put a tic in his jaw. His brother had lost that privilege years ago. Yet despite their breakup, somehow Spencer still remained close to her. They probably traded emails or texts. Probably aligned their summer visits and made plans to see each other on the island. His gloved grip on the handlebar tightened.
He let off the throttle as he approached, then cut the engine. Anger propelled him off the vehicle and across the ice.
“Hi!” Remi’s chipper greeting echoed in his ears when he spotted the blood on her face and coat.
“Cavalry’s here,” his idiot brother said from his still prone position.
“What in the fuck—” He slid on his knees, reaching for her to find the injury, but Remi batted his hands away.
“Hold still,” he snapped. “You’re bleeding.”
“Oh, that’s not mine,” she said breezily.
Spencer held up his hand. “It’s mine.”
Brick looked down and found the source of the blood. Remi had her scarf wrapped around his brother’s head, her gloved hand pressed tight to his forehead.
“Head wounds, am I right?” Spencer snickered.
“He hit his head pretty good,” Remi said.
“I totally would have beat your time if the ice hadn’t opened up like that,” Spencer complained.
Brick closed his eyes and took a breath. “Where’s my snowmobile?”
“He’s not gonna like it,” Spencer predicted.
Brick opened his eyes and looked at Remi. She pointed to a snowmobile-sized hole in the ice a few yards away. His hands closed into fists on his thighs.
“How mad is he?” Spencer asked in a stage whisper.
“He’s bundled up. I can’t see the veins in his neck,” Remi replied.
“What were you doing riding out here, and how aren’t you dead?” Brick demanded when he’d regained the power of speech.
“Spence and I were just messing around with time trials. The bridge is a little bumpy in a couple of spots, so smarty-pants here thought he’d do his last run on fresh ice,” Remi explained.
“So you weren’t on board?” Brick clarified.
“I was at the finish line with the timer,” she said cheerfully.
“Are you mad, B?” Spencer asked. “You look mad.”
“Mad?” Brick was several steps past furious. “Why should I be mad that you two are out here pissing around being irresponsible? Why would I be mad that you destroyed my only mode of transportation—”
“You still have Cleetus,” Spencer said helpfully.
Remi punched his brother in the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Why would I be mad that I’m the one who has to ride to the rescue and play clean up?”
“Sorry, Brick,” they said together.
Damn it. He hated when they said things in unison. Hated being reminded that he was somehow separate from the two of them. Hated that he was on the outside of their inside jokes.
“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered.
18
She wasn’t squeamish by nature. Her mother had taught Remi and Kimber when they were young how to clean up scrapes and cuts common to growing up on a rugged island. Remi, of course, had required more first aid than Kimber. While Kimber had been reading books and hanging out with cool teenage friends, Remi had been climbing trees, pushing snowmobiles past their limits, and playing street hockey with the boys.
Blood didn’t bother her.
At least it hadn’t until it was Camille’s all over her hands, dripping into the snow.
Now, it was Spencer’s. Who was going to be just fine.
“Just fine,” she repeated to herself.
She’d gone with the Callan men to Mackinac Island Medical to make sure there wasn’t anything terrifying about Spence’s head wound and to make sure Brick didn’t decide to murder his little brother. She’d excused herself immediately upon hearing from the not very impressed Dr. Ferrin that his “thick head” just needed a handful of stitches.
Brick had looked at her like he was going to argue about her leaving, but she hadn’t given him the chance. She’d ducked out of the waiting room and, after doing her best to wash most of the blood off her hands, she’d hightailed it home.
Her hands were still red. Her gloves were unsalvageable, thanks to Spence’s fountain-like geyser of O+. Her coat also looked a bit like she’d been an accomplice or a victim of a murder.
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.”