Poor Dad Repaired A Woman’s Squeaky Door On His Day Off, Not Knowing She Was A Billionaire In Love
An Unexpected Encounter
Zayn Parker didn’t expect his only day off in two weeks to start with his six-year-old daughter declaring, “Dad, the fridge sounds like it’s crying.”
While shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth, he laughed, ruffling Daisy’s curls.
“It’s not crying, baby; it’s just old like me.”
“You’re not old,” she said, frowning. “You’re just tired.”
She wasn’t wrong. Zayn glanced at the fridge, then at the broken drawer handle on their secondhand cabinet.
He looked at the pile of unpaid bills he’d shoved under the microwave.
He had a long list of things to fix in his own home.
Instead, by 10:00 a.m., he was standing on the porch of a townhouse two neighborhoods over, toolbox in hand.
His buddy from the hardware store had said, “She’s got a squeaky door. Pays cash. Real quiet lady.”
Zayn knocked once, twice, then the door opened, and he forgot how to blink.
She was stunning, not in a polished red-carpet way, but in a natural, caught-off-guard kind of beautiful.
Her messy bun was falling out. She had paint on her cheek, and she looked at him like she wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Hi,” she said, blinking. “Are you Zayn from the store? Your door?”
“Oh, right. The hinge.”
She stepped aside, motioning him in.
“It’s the back one. It’s been squeaking every time I go out to the garden, and it’s driving me insane.”
He stepped inside and immediately noticed how the place looked untouched.
It was expensive but not lived in. The furniture was designer but barely used.
The walls had that new paint smell.
Despite the house being big—really big—it felt like she was the only one who lived there.
“I’m Zayn Parker,” he offered, setting down his toolbox. “The guy who fixes squeaky doors.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Celia Monroe. The girl who can’t fix anything.”
He followed her toward the back of the house.
His eyes caught on the sunlight streaming through the glass doors.
The garden was massive and gorgeous, and the door was definitely squeaky.
“I’ll take a look,” he said, crouching down to examine the hinges.
“You always work on your day off?” she asked, watching him curiously.
“Not always, but bills don’t pay themselves.”
“You have kids?” she asked, eyes landing on the drawing peeking out of his toolbox.
Zayn smiled. “Yeah, Daisy. She’s six. Smarter than me and knows it.”
Celia smiled, and something about the way her face softened made his chest pull tight.
“She’s lucky to have a dad like you.”
He didn’t know why her words hit so deep.
The hinge was easy. He tightened a few screws and oiled the metal.
He tested it twice. No squeak.
He stood, brushing his hands off. “All set. How much do I owe you?”
Zayn hesitated. “Honestly, it took me five minutes.”
“And you came all the way here on your only day off,” she said, walking toward the kitchen.
“Let me at least make you coffee.”
“I really shouldn’t sit.”
“Coffee is not optional.”
He sat, and that’s how it started.
One cup of coffee turned into two. Then she offered him a slice of banana bread.
She claimed it was horribly overbaked, but it tasted like heaven.
They talked about Daisy and about Celia’s garden.
They talked about how she was taking some time off from her job.
She never said what she did, and Zayn didn’t press.
He didn’t care. She made him laugh, and it had been too long since anyone did.
When he finally stood to leave, she walked him to the door.
“Thanks again,” she said, her eyes lingering on his.
“You didn’t have to help, but I’m really glad you did.”
“Anytime,” he said, meaning it more than he should have.
As he stepped outside, she called after him. “Hey, Zayn.”
He turned. “You should bring Daisy by sometime.”
“I’m trying to grow strawberries. I could use a little expert.”
He smiled. “She’d love that.”
She would, because Celia Monroe had a softness in her voice that made even the hardest days feel lighter.
He didn’t know her, not really, but something about her already felt like home.
Celia watched him walk down the driveway, her heart pounding harder than it should for a man she just met.
She hadn’t told him the truth. Not about who she was.
She hadn’t told him about what she did.
She didn’t mention that the house wasn’t some modest suburban rental, but one of the smaller properties in her family’s billion-dollar real estate empire.
She hadn’t told him she was Celia Monroe—the Monroe.
The way he spoke to her, the way he looked at her like she was just a person—it had been a long time since anyone had done that.
She didn’t want to break the spell.
The next day, Zayn found a small basket outside his door.
Inside were strawberry seeds, a kid-sized gardening kit, and a note in neat handwriting.
“Thought Daisy might want to help me grow something real. Celia.”
Daisy squealed when she saw it. “Are we going?”
Zayn hesitated, but the way Daisy looked at him and the way Celia’s smile had stayed with him all night decided it.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re going.”
