“That’s for the table’s tip,” she said. Then she stood, took the rose, the note, and the jar of pennies, and looked at the Venetian. “Tell your chef I won’t be needing that island.”
He’d first seen her at a rooftop party he’d snuck into by carrying a tray of shrimp cocktails and looking useful. She’d been leaning against the railing, a flute of something expensive in her hand, watching the skyline like she owned the rights to the sunset. i want to impress her money birdette, johnny love
He’d polished each penny by hand.
“You polished 1,783 pennies,” she said slowly. “That’s for the table’s tip,” she said
“We’ll see,” she said. But her thumb traced a small circle on the back of his hand. She’d been leaning against the railing, a flute
Johnny walked up to the table. Laid the cardboard box gently in front of her.
The Velvet Spur was all low gold light and the smell of cedar and old money. And there she was—Money Birdette in a jade-green dress that probably cost more than Johnny’s entire apartment building. Across from her, the Venetian was gesturing broadly about something involving a tax haven and a private chef.