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.
“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.” i want to impress her money birdette, johnny love
“Your idiot?”