Chapter 8 #3
Griff reached across the table and rested his hand on mine. “Hear me out,” he said as I almost choked on my own saliva. “Please?”
I must’ve nodded.
“Airbnb is the perfect plan,” he said. “It will rake in money, trust me. My aunt owns a condo in Nashville and it gets booked like clockwork. Mostly for bachelorette weekends, but, you know, Nashville’s a cool city. Plus, the condo’s Taylor Swift–themed.”
“What does that mean?” Henry asked.
Griff shrugged. “Each room is decorated as a different era, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge painting over the fireplace of her holding her cat.”
“Oh man,” I whispered. “That is genius.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Griff grinned. “You can become an Airbnb host and rent out your house while your parents are gone. You’ll make bank, Audrey.”
Henry opened his mouth, but before he could explain that I’d specifically meant the Taylor Swift thing was genius, I pointed out that my parents were only away for three weeks. In the grand scheme of things, that wasn’t very long.
“Right.” Henry nodded. “How is that enough time for ‘bank,’ Keeler?”
If anyone even books it, I thought. Doesn’t it take time to build a reputation?
“Audrey, come on!” Griff said. “Your house is a mansion on the Long Island Sound—we can charge whatever.” He smiled, his slightly chipped tooth so charming. “I can help too. Seriously, anything you need. This is going to be electric.”
Electric, I thought. It was such a Griffin Keeler word, but he didn’t throw it around lightly. Did he really believe in this? Believe in me?
“It’d be legal, right?” I asked, my voice unintentionally breathy. “How old do you have to be to host?”
“Mmm…” Griff unlocked his phone, and after a couple of seconds of tapping, said, “Eighteen.”
All right, I thought. I’d turned eighteen in February; I could use my actual driver’s license instead of my fake ID.
If there was a way to keep this as clean as possible…
Other obstacles popped into my mind, but three words—ten thousand dollars—suddenly made them seem less important. Maybe James, who would be here in less than twenty-four hours, would find running an Airbnb fun.
“What do you think?” I asked Henry.
He glanced up from his phone, in the middle of texting someone—Ellie, once upon a time. Audrey is about to go off the rails, I imagined the message reading.
But I didn’t care; that text didn’t exist. He’d probably been messaging his mom or something.
“I think it could work,” I prompted, and even though I knew Henry liked to meditate on things for more than three minutes, there wasn’t really time. I felt bolstered by Griff, and if I let that feeling shrink, I would change my mind.
“You really want to do this?” Henry asked me. “You really want to rent your home to strangers?”
“Chen, that’s like Airbnb’s entire philosophy,” Griff said.
“Well, no,” I answered. “Not my home—at least, not the main house.” I shifted in my seat, flustered but forging onward. “We could do the carriage house.”
The carriage house was a fancy way of saying guesthouse, which was a fancy way of saying apartment above the garage. Because above my hot shop was an adorable flat my mom had decorated to perfection.
Henry didn’t respond.
Please, I thought after one beat, two beats, three beats had passed. Please help me. I am organized, but so much more organized with you by my side.
Whether friends or a fake couple, I was my best self with Henry.
“Okay,” he finally relented. “The carriage house it is.”
Griff whooped, and unable to express my gratitude, I grasped Henry’s sleeve and shook his arm until he let out a laugh.
“What’s step one?” he asked.
“Audrey registers as an Airbnb host,” Griff responded. “I remember my aunt saying it’s a piece of cake.”
I nodded but bit the inside of my cheek. “We should move this strategy session elsewhere,” I said, glancing around us. Sandwitch was far from secluded. “I don’t want anyone we know overhearing and snitching to my mom.”
“To Casa Barbour we go!” Griff pushed back his chair. “Right after I hit the restroom…”
“Tell me right now,” Henry whispered once Griff was gone. “Are you doing this for him?”
“What?” I gave him a look. “Henry, no.”
He waited.
“It didn’t even cross my mind,” I told him. “This is all for”—I made air quotes—“the hustle.” It was the truth, but now that he’d mentioned it, spending more time with Griff would be a nice bonus. “Whatever it takes, I need to make back everything I just drained from the Unexpected fund.”
“You will,” he told me, then sighed. “Because as risky as I think this is, we’re going to pull it off.”
PAINT A PICTURE OF YOUR PLACE.
That was the first phase in becoming a Here-to-Stay host. In the time it had taken to exit Sandwitch, cross the parking lot, and buckle our seat belts in Brigitta, Henry had discovered a snag in the plan. “Airbnb is outlawed in Essex Harbor,” he informed me. “As of last year.”
“No way,” I said. “Really?”
Henry showed me his phone, which displayed the headline essex harbor finally bans airbnb. I skimmed the article enough to spot the phrases little supervision and quality of life disrupted and newly drafted zoning codes.
“Why didn’t we know about this?” I asked.
Henry gave me a look that said, Why would we?
Everyone knew Essex Harbor’s population swelled in the summer, and over the past several years, it had also apparently become the perfect place for a quiet, off-season retreat. Tourism boosted our economy!
But I’d never put much thought into where tourists stayed while here.
I scanned Henry’s phone again. It turned out most people in town didn’t like the short-term rental scene—Airbnb, Vrbo, , etc.
—but the only problems were specifically with Airbnb clientele.
Other platforms were still fair game. “Fear not,” I told Henry, smiling a little. “This says nothing about Here-to-Stay.”
Here-to-Stay was one of my mom’s recent obsessions.
It was a short-term rental platform that specialized in curated, thoughtful getaways.
You booked a weekend stay in Newport, Rhode Island, in order to experience Newport, Rhode Island.
Here-to-Stay was about more than finding somewhere to crash after your fraternity brother’s wedding.
“It even offers you suggested trips!” I remembered my mom mentioning while we watched a montage of one lifestyle guru’s weekend in Palm Beach (dinner at the Breakers, of course).
Henry’s jaw tightened as he retrieved his phone, but he immediately started typing something. “Hosts are twenty-five and older,” he said after several beats.
My stomach sank. My fake ID said I was only twenty-two.
“Here-to-Stay needs to verify your identity and possession of the property,” he continued, then looked at me. “You don’t own your house.”
“True,” I agreed. “But we know the people who do.”
Henry sighed. “Sabrina, don’t tell me—”
“How do they verify it?” I asked, not ready to give up yet. “Because we can submit a copy of last month’s electric bill as proof, and my mom’s passport—”
“Is with her in France,” Henry finished for me. “Along with her driver’s license, right?”
“Shit,” I mumbled, but then my pulse jumped. “Wait, I have a photo of her license! She forgot it at home one day, but needed it for an appointment so I texted it to her.”
“Thank god you never delete your photos,” Henry deadpanned. But he didn’t say no. Instead, he offered to drive so I could download Here-to-Stay’s app and take office as chief researcher.
“Share the finer details,” I read aloud on the way home. “Where you live, how many guests can stay, et cetera.”
Henry nodded. “After that?”
“Make it shine,” I said. “Add photos, plus a title. Here-to-Stay will make some recommendations.”
“How generous of them.”
I cleared my throat. “Finish up and broadcast. Choose if you’d like to start with a seasoned guest, set a nightly rate, and post your listing.” I shifted in my seat. “Okay, that’s a lot to consider.”
“I’m sure they’ll offer standard suggestions.”
“Is it ironic that I wish my mom were here to help?”
Henry flipped Brigitta’s blinker. “Very, but remember we’ve got Griff.” Pause. “Who could be better?”
Griff and his Camaro had beaten us back to the house, but I couldn’t pinpoint how I felt when I spotted Ellie’s Prius also in the driveway.
“Were you texting Ellie earlier?” I asked, voice sounding a little pitchy.
“Did you invite her over?” I wanted to pinch Henry, totally mortified. “Did you tell her?”
“I did,” Henry said, then dared to add, “She’s good at this stuff, Holly.”
He received the middle finger in response.
Ellie had changed since the morning and now looked put together in a cute dress with her no-longer-wet hair pulled back in what I called the “suburban mom bun.” It implied she was going to get shit done.
Okay, I couldn’t disagree with Henry on this one.
Her hair didn’t look as pink as usual, though—it had been lightened back to its natural blond. I’d been too distracted lately to notice. Maybe Tate needed to restock supplies before she could touch it up?
“You know this is stupid,” she greeted me, definitely judging. “Right?”
I nodded.
She plastered on a no-teeth smile. “What do you want me to do?”
“You really want to help?” I asked. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to spend more time with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend than absolutely necessary.
Unless…
Remember the goal, I reminded myself, thinking of Ellie’s rendition of “deja vu” and our tense Rise & Grind talk this morning. If Ellie has lingering feelings for Henry, we want her to reveal them.
Ellie folded her arms over her chest. “It would be nice to make some extra money,” she said. “I need to save my paychecks for college, but I know the Amtrak tickets to Boston this summer are going to add up.”
I blinked. Extra money?
“Griff texted that you were going to give us each a cut,” she clarified to my clearly clueless face. “For helping you?”