I Want To Impress Her Money | Birdette, Johnny Love |work|

Birdette looked bored. Not the polite kind. The I-have-counted-the-tiles-on-this-floor-and-there-are-exactly-2,304-of-them kind.

“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.”

“You could have just rolled them.”

“Go on,” she said.

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

Nobody knew her real name. Some said she’d inherited a cleaning fortune. Others whispered she’d once bankrupted a hedge fund manager over a bad tiramisu. All anyone knew for sure was that she wore gold like it was armor, tipped in hundred-dollar bills, and had a stare that could appraise your entire net worth in half a blink.

Now he stood outside her favorite supper club, the Velvet Spur, clutching a small cardboard box. Inside: a single, perfect red rose, a handwritten note that said “For the woman who makes arithmetic feel like poetry,” and—this was the crazy part—a small glass jar filled with exactly 1,783 pennies. Birdette looked bored

“You’ve got thirty seconds to walk me home before I decide you’re a weirdo with too much free time.”