Poor Dad Repaired A Woman’s Squeaky Door On His Day Off, Not Knowing She Was A Billionaire In Love
The Artist and the Renovation
Celia answered the door in jeans and a white shirt smudged with dirt.
Her eyes lit up when she saw Daisy. “You must be the expert,” she said, kneeling down to Daisy’s height.
Daisy beamed. “I brought my own gloves.”
Zayn watched the two of them disappear into the garden like they’d known each other forever.
He sat on the porch steps, sipping the lemonade Celia handed him.
He tried not to think too much about the way his heart twisted every time she smiled.
He didn’t belong in her world.
He fixed doors for a living. She had a backyard that looked like a magazine cover.
But she didn’t look at him like he didn’t belong.
Maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep coming back.
Zayn adjusted Daisy’s backpack as she skipped ahead.
Her tiny boots were already muddy from the early spring rain that hadn’t quite dried yet.
They’d been coming to Celia’s house twice a week for nearly a month now.
Daisy came for the garden. Zayn came for reasons he hadn’t quite figured out how to admit to himself.
He stood at the open gate as Daisy ran ahead through the rows of sprouting green.
Celia looked up from where she was kneeling, holding a small trowel and a tray of seedlings.
Her hair was tucked into a loose braid today. There was a streak of soil across her forearm.
“You’re early!” she called, rising to her feet.
Daisy was too excited to wait. She insisted the strawberries were going to sprout today.
Celia laughed, brushing her hands off on a towel she had tucked into her waistband.
“She might be right. Come see.”
She waved him over, and he stepped carefully between the garden beds, avoiding the wet patches.
He crouched beside her as she gently pulled back a leaf.
Sure enough, a tiny green nub was pushing up from the soil.
“She’s going to lose her mind,” he said, glancing at Daisy.
Daisy was now organizing her gardening tools with the seriousness of a heart surgeon.
“I hope so,” Celia replied, but her voice had dropped slightly.
“She reminds me of someone.”
Zayn turned his head. “Yeah?”
“My sister,” she said, her tone careful.
“When we were kids, she used to sneak into the greenhouse at my grandfather’s estate.”
“She said it was the only place that felt quiet.”
Zayn didn’t push. He just nodded.
Celia stood and walked toward the patio, gesturing for him to follow.
“You want something to drink? I made rosemary lemonade.”
He followed her up the steps. “You keep making things I didn’t even know existed.”
“Maybe I’m trying to impress you,” she said lightly.
She turned away before he could respond.
Inside the kitchen, she poured two glasses.
Zayn leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the room.
Everything gleamed: marble countertops, brass fixtures, a vintage stove that looked more decorative than functional.
“You ever cook on that thing?” he asked, tipping his chin toward the stove.
“I try,” she said, handing him a glass.
“Mostly I burn things and pretend I meant to.”
He took a sip, surprised by the crispness of the drink.
“Okay, that’s actually incredible.”
She smiled but didn’t look at him. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
Zayn raised an eyebrow. “All right.”
She hesitated, then met his gaze. “Would you be open to helping me with a bigger project in the guest house?”
He blinked. “You’ve got a guest house?”
“Sort of. It’s more like a detached studio.”
“I’ve been meaning to turn it into a workspace, but the plumbing’s ancient.”
“The walls are uneven and the floor… well, you’ll see.”
He studied her face. “You sure you want me for that?”
“I can recommend someone with a full crew.”
“I want you.”
The air shifted. He gripped his glass a little tighter.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll take a look.”
Later that afternoon, Daisy packed up her gloves and proudly declared herself a plant mom.
Celia led Zayn down a stone path behind the garden.
The guest house was more like a small villa.
It had arched windows, faded shutters, and ivy crawling up one side.
Inside, the place was dusty but sun-drenched with exposed beams and a cracked sink in the corner.
“I want to turn it into a studio,” she said, stepping into the middle of the room.
“Somewhere I can write.”
“You’re a writer?” he asked, surprised.
“Of sorts,” she said, running her hand along the windowsill. “I used to be. Before.”
“Before what?”
She didn’t answer. He walked the perimeter, checking the floorboards and tapping on the walls.
“You’ll need electrical rewiring and new insulation.”
“That sink’s got a hairline crack that’s going to spread unless it’s replaced. Can you do it?”
He glanced at her. “I can do it, but it’ll take time.”
“I’ve got time.”
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask how she could afford all this.
He didn’t ask why someone with a house like hers didn’t already have a contractor.
He just nodded. “I’ll draw up a list of materials.”
“I’ll take care of the costs,” she said.
Zayn opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
“Don’t argue. It’s my project. I want to do it right.”
He didn’t argue.
The next week, he arrived with a truck full of supplies.
Daisy stayed home with Miss Terry from across the hall.
For the first time, it was just him and Celia.
They worked side by side, pulling out warped panels and sanding rough beams.
She was stronger than he expected, not afraid to get her hands dirty or sweat through her shirt.
She cursed when she dropped a wrench on her foot.
He laughed harder than he had in months.
“You think this is funny?” she said, hopping on one leg.
“A little,” he said, reaching for the wrench.
“You’ve got a surprisingly colorful vocabulary.”
“I wasn’t raised in a convent.”
“No,” he said, standing. “But you weren’t raised here either.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing.
“I’ve been to enough houses to know this one’s not normal,” he continued.
“You’re not just a woman with a backyard.”
Celia turned away, pulling a tarp off a forgotten shelf.
“You’re right.”
He waited, but she didn’t elaborate.
The silence stretched until she finally spoke again.
“I didn’t mean to lie to you.”
“I just wanted to know what it felt like to be looked at without expectations.”
Zayn leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “And what do you think I see when I look at you?”
“I think you see a woman with dirt on her jeans and no idea how to fix a sink.”
He chuckled. “That’s not all I see.”
Their eyes met. She stepped closer. “Then what do you see?”
Zayn didn’t answer with words. He kissed her, slow and certain.
When they pulled apart, she looked up at him, breathless.
“I thought you weren’t going to kiss me,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t,” he said, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
“But you keep surprising me.”
That, more than anything, terrified him.
Women like Celia Monroe didn’t fall for men like him.
Except maybe this one just had.
The first time Zayn saw the inside of Celia’s art studio fully lit, he paused in the doorway.
He was taken aback, not by the transformation, but by what it revealed.
Canvas after canvas leaned against the walls.
Some were wrapped in linen, others half-finished.
Every one of them pulsed with color and movement, as if the paint itself were still breathing.
He hadn’t known she painted. Hell, he hadn’t known she painted like this.
“I thought you said you were a writer,” he said, stepping in slowly.
“I never said that,” Celia replied, standing near the far window.
She had a paintbrush in one hand and a rag in the other. “You assumed.”
“And you let me?”
She dipped the brush into a jar of water, not meeting his eyes. “You didn’t ask.”
Zayn approached one of the canvases, a storm-tossed sea rendered in impossible detail.
“These are incredible.”
“They’re just what’s in my head,” she said, setting the brush down carefully.
“Sometimes it’s too loud up there, and this is the only way to shut it up.”
He gestured around. “This is more than a hobby. Why hide it?”
Her silence twisted something in his gut.
She walked over and pulled a linen cover over the painting he’d been staring at.
“Because when people know who I am, they stop caring about what I do.”
Zayn leaned against the worktop, arms folded.
“You think I’d care more about the name on your bank account than the woman who makes these?”
“No,” she said after a beat. “I think you’re the first person who wouldn’t.”
The tension between them was different now. It wasn’t flirtation or uncertainty.
It felt heavier, older, like it had been waiting below the surface for years.
Celia moved closer, then paused. “I haven’t told anyone else about the paintings. Why me?”
She reached up, brushing a streak of blue from his cheek with the edge of her sleeve.
“Because I can breathe when you’re around.”
Zayn didn’t know what to say to that.
He just let the weight of it settle into the air between them.
Later that evening, he fixed the drainage behind the guest house.
She painted in silence while he worked.
They sat on the back steps, watching the dusk settle over the garden.
She passed him a glass of wine without asking if he wanted one.
He accepted it without protest.
“You ever think about leaving this place?” he asked, nodding toward the house.
“All the time.”
“What stops you?”
“My name. My family. And the guilt.”
He turned to look at her, but she wasn’t watching him.
Her gaze was fixed on the distance where the horizon was beginning to burn pale orange.
“My father passed last year,” she said quietly. “I was supposed to take over.”
“I was groomed for it since I could tie my own shoes.”
“He built everything from the ground up, and I was the one who was supposed to keep it going.”
Zayn didn’t interrupt.
“But I hated it. Boardrooms, numbers, the constant pressure to expand, acquire, dominate.”
“I wanted to disappear.”
Her voice faltered. “So I did.”
“You ran?”
“I walked away. And I’ve been waiting for someone to drag me back ever since.”
Zayn swirled the wine in his glass, thinking. “And what happens if they do?”
“They can’t. Not unless I let them.”
She turned to face him, eyes searching his. “People like me don’t get to live quietly. Not for long.”
Zayn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then don’t be like them.”
She laughed, but it was soft and brittle. “It’s not that easy.”
“It is,” he said.
“You just have to want something else more than you’re afraid of losing what you had.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “And what do you want, Zayn?”
He looked down at the rim of his glass, then back at her.
“I want to wake up one morning and not worry if the electricity is still on.”
“I want Daisy to go to a school where the ceiling doesn’t leak.”
“And I want to come home to someone who sees me.”
Her breath caught. “I see you,” she said quietly.
