And Johnny Love—charm-for-brains, rent-controlled-by-the-grace-of-God Johnny Love—was utterly, hopelessly gone for her.
Johnny pointed to the rose. “That’s because you’re beautiful, but you already know that.” Then he slid the note across. “And that’s because you told me once that money was just arithmetic with feelings attached. Most people forget the feelings part.”
Johnny walked up to the table. Laid the cardboard box gently in front of her. i want to impress her money birdette, johnny love
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.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, she glanced at him sideways. “Polished pennies, Johnny Love?” “And that’s because you told me once that
“Neither are sunsets,” Johnny had replied. “But they show up anyway.”
His entire savings. Every cent.
The Venetian was a rival—a silk-scarf-wearing dilettante with a yacht and the emotional depth of a puddle. He’d been trying to buy Birdette a private island for the past week.