Playlist for MARKET FOR LOVE:
MARKET FOR LOVE:
Miranda Johansson: Anne Hathaway
Maxwell Moore: Aaron Taylor-Johnson
“Three double-espressos, please,” Miranda barked at the purple-dreadlocked college student behind the counter of her building’s lobby coffee shop. “With soy milk and a dash of hazelnut syrup. And can you put all three double-espressos in the same big cup, please? Just leave off the lid. I’ll drink it here.”
The purple-dreadlocked clerk didn’t acknowledge Miranda’s order. He just stared at her.
Miranda rolled her eyes. She didn’t have time for this. “Pardon me, but are you hard of hearing?”
“No,” the glassy-eyed, purple-haired clerk said after a long, awkward moment. “Sorry. I was just kind of freaked out by your--face, that’s all.”
“My face? Are you implying there’s something wrong with my face?” Miranda’s temper—short in even the best of circumstances—let loose in full post-market-crash fury. “Because if you are honestly going to stand there making comments about my face when your hair looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, then you have really got a lot of nerve, buddy.”
Purple Dread Head’s mouth popped open for a moment, then clapped shut with a click. Silently he turned his back on Miranda and began frothing some milk for her espresso order.“That’s more like it,” she said under her breath. “Lazy freaking hippie.”
Tossing petty insults at low-paid service workers wasn’t exactly Miranda’s style----in fact, she’d put herself through business school slinging lattes at this coffee chain’s main competition----but losing eighty-seven million dollars’ worth of her clients’ money in one day wasn’t exactly her style, either. With that kind of bad news weighing her down, Miranda figured she was entitled to blow her stack a little bit. She stepped down to the end of the counter to await her order, seething, and grinding her teeth in time to the espresso machine.
As she stood there, gathering up about nineteen packets of sugar for what would probably be the most intense shot of caffeine in her life, Miranda felt a sharp tap on her shoulder.
“I really think you owe the Rastafarian behind the counter an apology, miss.”
Miranda whirled around. A tall man stood just to her left, carrying an extra-large mug of hot chocolate complete with about four inches worth of whipped cream on top. A tall, slim, trim, well-dressed, and very attractive man. Dark hair in an immaculate, well-combed cut. Ice-blue eyes. Jawline so angular and sharp it was probably capable of shredding lettuce. Broad shoulders, square chest, dimpled chin. A stop-your-heart-right-between-beats kind of tall, attractive man. In other words ….
Drop. Dead. Gorgeous.
A drop-dead-gorgeous man who also looked about two seconds shy of tossing his hot chocolate right into Miranda’s face.