I Moved in for a Week and Fell for My Landlord’s Daughter.

I never thought a broken pipe would change my entire life. One minute I was standing in my pristine Boston apartment, watching water pour through my ceiling like a biblical flood, and the next I was stuffing designer blouses into a duffel bag, praying my landlord would find me somewhere—anywhere—to sleep that night. That was how I ended up on the doorstep of a crumbling Victorian house in Jamaica Plain, clutching a suitcase and wondering if the woman who answered the door had just escaped from a Grateful Dead concert. Her name was Ruth, she smelled like lavender and patchouli, and she told me I could stay in the spare room for exactly seven days while my luxury apartment underwent emergency repairs. Seven days. One week. How much could possibly go wrong? I was about to find out. And honestly? I was about to fall hopelessly, ridiculously, head-over-heels in love with the most chaotic, beautiful, infuriating woman I had ever met.