You Had Me At Boo - Marian Tee Page 0,4

before-and-after shots - had been willing to sign me up if I had an Instagram following. Which I did not...since my account had always been set to private.

The writing on the wall was impossible to ignore by then, but it was still a hard pill to swallow at first. I couldn't understand why everyone seemed to think I had lost my skills just because I wasn't in my twenties. It was as if they thought my brain shed off IQ points with every candle added to my birthdday cake.

But...anyway, moving on.

That was my #1 mantra these days. No dwelling on things that were out of my control. If something didn't work, I would simply move on, like I was doing now.

Life started at forty, right?

MARY PRISCILLA FLOATED around my average-sized bathroom while I moved on to Step #3 of my skincare routine. Just between you and me, I used to be the one-soap-cleans-all kind of girl, but now that majority of society insisted on reshelving me under MILF even though I had never given birth?

I put the cap back on my spot-correcting serum and moved on to my moisturizer.

Yeeaah.

I freely admit it. Their judgmental looks had gotten to me, and I've decided to take a proactive approach to wrinkling.

Mary Priscilla poked her head inside the bathroom. "Jason texted you again."

"Pri...va...cy...brat!" It was hard to speak while I was busy spreading moisturizer on my cheeks with the pads of my fingers in slow, circular motions, just like what it said at the back of the box for Step #4.

Mary Priscilla continued nagging me about Jason even as we got ready for bed. Or at least I was. I wasn't quite sure if dead people still needed sleep, and I had never found the courage to ask any of the ghosts about it.

"Hey, Saoirse?"

I had just switched the bedlight off when Mary Priscilla's voice played out in the darkness.

"What?"

"I have something important to say to you."

"Uh—-"

"Spinsters can't be choosers, spinters can't be choosers!"

Horrible little brat. I should really just stop listening to my conscience and throw this kid out of the window.

"Spinters can't be choosers, spinsters can't be choosers!"

"I'm so not a spinster—-'

"You are from where I'm standing," the forever-young ghost sniggered.

I grabbed my pillow from both ends and pulled it close to cover my ears, but it still wasn't enough to block Mary Priscilla's singsong voice. Impertinent, pint-sized smartass. How dare she call me the S-word?

"Spinsters can't be choosers, spinsters can't be choosers."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Whatever.

I was so going to show this brat that age was just a number, and I could still be fabulous at forty. Jason wasn't the only fish in the sea, after all. There was...there was Joaquin, for instance. He was the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome type, and he's made it clear several times that he found me attractive. Granted, he was also very much dead like Mary Priscilla was, but that shouldn't matter.

Right?

Chapter Three

Little Hollywood, located twenty minutes out of Portland, is the kind of town you'd often see travel magazines and websites describe in words such as "up and coming", "hipster", and "vibrant". Majority of the population's under forty, and all of the establishments had glamorous interiors and chichi but pseudo-serious names like Essence (a lingerie boutique) and Nourish (a farm-to-table restaurant that only served greens and more greens from morning to night). Everything here was also expensive as hell, which was why I used to avoid it like the plague, even back when I had been earning serious bucks with my old job.

But now I hadn't any choice.

My new workplace was called The Enlightenment Center, and it had been a shot in the dark, applying for the receptionist job at TEC. Although its ad had requested for someone young, energetic, and presentable, I submitted my resumé all the same and mentioned in my cover letter instead how I was extremely good at charming the socks off anybody.

And what do you know?

It actually worked, and so here I was now, being welcomed by my new boss, who was a dead ringer for Harrison Ford, except for the glossy black dye of the former's hair.

"I used to work as a customer surgeon in Beverly Hills," Dr. Robert Harris shared. "But things were getting too commercial for my taste."

I nodded and tried to look like I totally got him, even though I didn't. "What made you choose to relocate to Portland?"

"The quality of life," my new boss answered. "It's so deliciously fresh and pure."

"Right."

"I was