No Secrets Between Us: A Small Town Second Chance Romance (Sweet Reunion Series, Book 1)

By Maeve Garner

Love might be their salvation…but only if they can live with no secrets between them…

Jovie Edwards wants to move on with her life. But as a new widow in a small town, that's easier said than done. Especially when she keeps running into her first love. She's already lost so much. He can't possibly expect her to let him anywhere near what's left of her heart…can he?

Cam Mason's life is every bit as messy as Jovie's. But getting a second chance with her is the best thing that's happened to him in a long time. He let her go once, and it nearly destroyed him. He won't make that mistake again…

It's not long before Jovie and Cam learn there's a lot more than a few years standing between them—
including some unsettling truths about Jovie's husband, and the dark secrets Cam's harbored for so long.
At this point, only one thing is certain.

If they want their happily ever after, they'll need to fight for it…

No Secrets Between Us, book 1 in the Sweet Reunion Series, is an angsty, steamy, emotional, contemporary romance that can be read as a standalone. Get ready to fall for Jovie, Cam, and Maybury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350910650

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Copyright © 2023 Maeve Garner

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

maevegarner.com

Print ISBN: 979-8-35091-064-3

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35091-065-0

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

CAM

I watch dots of rain gather on the windshield of my truck and slide down the glass like tear drops. A shiver crawls across my skin as the chill of the October day seeps into the truck cab. The paved stretch of street behind me is quiet like every other back street in sleepy little Maybury on this dreary Saturday afternoon.

Her navy-blue car is parked in the garage and soft light glows from around her house windows like a welcoming beacon. Jovie is home, yet here I sit waiting for the courage to move.

Countless times over the past month, I had sat in this very spot in her driveway, never leaving my truck, driving away without satisfying my need to see her, to comfort her, to assure myself she hadn’t sunk into the depths of despair.

My fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel.

No more delays, Cam. You have to see her today. It is the only way you will sleep decently tonight. This three or four hours of sleep at night is ridiculous. It has to end.

One glance in the visor mirror bolsters my resolve. The dark circles etched beneath my hazel eyes show the persistent lack of sleep and the exhaustion that dogs me. What I wouldn’t give for a solid eight hours of sleep. Hell, I would take six hours if it meant not lying awake for hours worrying about her. And the questions, the same nagging questions that swirl over and over in my head as I lie awake in the early hours before dawn, have nearly driven me insane.

When is the proper time to visit? How long do I allow Jovie to grieve before I reappear in her life? When is it acceptable to declare I still care for her, still love her? How long can I withstand the torture of staying away?

I blow out a long breath, pressing back into the seat, and stare at the grey ceiling of the truck cab. The logical part of my brain utters madness. I know I am driving myself crazy, overthinking and over-analyzing the situation. I have created my own personal hell and if I don’t pluck up the courage to go inside, to check on Jovie, I will be sitting in this same spot a week from now in the same condition, sleep deprived, exhausted, and worried.

I need to see Jovie, to comfort her, to end my suffering, yet that little voice in my head says, ‘she is going to reject you.’ Me, Cam Mason, her ex-boyfriend, shows up at her door and Jovie is just going to welcome me with open arms. I am dreaming, delusional, if I think that is the way this reunion is going to play out. I broke her heart eight years ago, shattered the plans for our future. I don’t deserve a second chance, but damnit, I want one. More than anything, I want a second chance.

Just go up to the door and knock. She is suffering more than you. She has to be, and she needs you.

The horrible heart wrenching ache starts in the middle of my chest as it does every time I replay the memory of Grant Edwards’s funeral.

I snuck into the back pew of the church as the service began. Bouquets of flowers surrounded the closed wood casket in front of the altar and the robed minister spoke of a good man, of eternity and heaven, of things I know nothing about. Jovie’s sobs, the sounds of her mourning, echoed through the church, and each harrowing sob tore at my heart as I listened with my head bowed. The pain I felt for her that day was unbearable.

Any jealousy I felt for Grant Edwards died that day. I harbored no further ill feelings for the dead man, for the husband Jovie loved. In fact, I felt nothing for Grant Edwards, only pain and anger at what his death was doing to her.

I wanted to go to Jovie then, hold her in my arms, and tell her I would be there for her as she grieved. Instead, I stayed rooted in that back pew and looked on as her mother and father comforted her.

Jovie was so strong that day, the day she buried Grant, but is she strong enough to endure the loss? Will the grief consume her?

The thought strikes fear into my heart. I can’t possibly live in a world without Jovie. I know that now, as much as I understand, that I need to be the one to hold Jovie and comfort her.

I vowed long ago, if given another chance, I wouldn’t allow another man to slip between us. I need Jovie in my life, and I have to convince her to need me.

If I hadn’t walked away, after the first argument, at the first test of our love, Jovie would still be mine. I am sure of it. If I hadn’t been so weak back then, my demons so fresh, I could have told her the truth, dealt with her pity, and let her comfort and soothe away my pain. My pride got in the way eight years ago.

Not this time.

If I can just lay eyes on her today, if I can see that Jovie is okay, I will sleep again, the worrying will stop, and my misery will end. I am certain of it.

This monumental level of worry eating at me is foreign and bewildering. Cam Mason is not a man that worries or frets. When faced with a problem, I don’t question, waver, or debate. I am sure-footed, confident, a man of quick action. I figure things out and get things done. That is how I survive.

I shake my head in disbelief. This is what I am reduced to, sitting in my truck, too much of a chicken to face Jovie, to face my fears. Enough. This is ridiculous. I am being ridiculous.

Time to move. Time to get this over with.

With final resolve, I push open the truck door and climb out into the blustery October day.

Rain drops darken the blue of my sweatshirt and the wind whips through my hair as I walk along the curving cement path to her front door. Grey clouds swirl and roll in the turbulent sky.

Jovie’s home, a sprawling steely blue ranch with a field stone chimney, sits on three lots, maybe four. The backyard, hedged in cedar picket fence, is spacious and the front yard expertly landscaped and manicured. I can’t help but wonder if this is the home of her dreams. Did her real estate mogul husband grant her every wish?

Round cedar trees and wrought iron railing flank the wide wedge-shaped front steps. I knock on her decorative front door and wait as my heart pounds a nervous rhythm.

I detect no movement from within the house and venture a glance at the six pane rectangular house windows facing the road. Maybe Jovie is sleeping or avoiding visitors. I wouldn’t blame her if she was. One more knock and I will let her be.

The sound of footsteps from within the house stops my fist in mid-air, and a crop of unwelcome nerves swarm in my belly. My heart hammers in edgy anticipation as the lock clicks and the front door creaks open.

Tight blonde curls tumble about her face as slender fingers try to rein them in. One look at Jovie’s beautiful face and my galloping heart skitters to a halt and squeezes in my chest. The red stain on the border of her upper lip and her puffy, red-rimmed eyes ram me with guilt.

I should have come sooner.

The overwhelming urge to wrap Jovie in my arms, to comfort her, swoops in strong and fierce, and I jam my hands in the pocket of my hoodie to prevent an awkward moment.

Cam. The light in her stunning blue eyes and the surprise in her voice ebbs away my gnawing worry for her.

Hi. I just came to see how you are. I hope I’m not intruding. My eyes take in every line and curve of her oval face, her sapphire eyes, and perfect lips. If this is the last time I see Jovie, if she sends me away, I want to commit her face to memory.

Her pink lips curve into a welcoming smile that sends my heart soaring. No, come in out of the rain. Her soft voice adds another layer of balm, easing my worry and nerves. I had almost forgotten the way her sweet, gentle voice affects me.

I step inside and into her world, a world I have desperately missed. I stand on a sturdy rug partially covering a patch of mocha stone tile in her living room and feel the radiating warmth of her body as she moves closer, shutting the door behind me, sealing out the chilly dampness of the day.

Would you like to sit? Her far too slender arm gestures to the tan suede couch with fluffy arms and cushions.

Her pair of high-waisted black leggings and a white cropped sweatshirt show off her petite frame. She has always been petite, but I don’t remember her looking so thin, like a powerful gust of the wind outside could carry her away. I think my hand might fit around one of her thighs and both hands around her tiny waist.

I stop my perusal of her and answer. Sure.

As I slip off my shoes onto the rug, Jovie looks up at me. Despite her best efforts to hide the inner turmoil I am certain she is experiencing, I see sadness in her eyes.

Can I get you anything to drink? she asks politely.

I would expect Jovie to be polite despite her emotional state. Politeness was ingrained in her during childhood. That much I know. I won’t trouble her or stay long.

No, thank you.

As I sink into the couch cushion, my eyes sweep over her living room, walls in a color that remind me of raw almonds, a burgundy carpet with almond-colored flecks, and two matching couches gather around a stone fireplace. Quilts hang over the back of the couches and tasteful mountain scenes spring forth from the art on the walls. A picture on the mantle catches my eye, one of Grant and Jovie smiling and embracing.

An unexpected zing of pain slices through my heart as I stare at the picture. Jovie was happy. She loved Grant, and one tragic accident stole him from her. On a foggy September night, Grant Edwards rolled his car down a steep embankment. Apparently, he’d had dinner and a few drinks that night with his business partner and investors in Dawson and drove home. Investigators presume he lost control of the car. The accident occurred just outside of Maybury.

Images swim in my head of Jovie’s franticness when she received the call telling her of Grant’s accident, the panic and fear for her husband, and the shattering of her heart as she entered the emergency room at Maybury Medical Center to find that the doctors couldn’t save him.

The conjured images are too real, too painful, and I turn my attention to the other pictures lining the shelf, pictures of Jovie with her parents at varying stages of youth with spectacular scenery in the background. Family trips, I assume. She grew up in a happy home with loving parents. I knew what that was like once, a long time ago.

My eyes shift to Jovie as she lowers onto the couch, leaving a space between us. Even with red-rimmed eyes and pink blotches on her porcelain cheeks, her beauty mesmerizes me. It always has.

The first time I laid eyes on Jovie, our first day of kindergarten at Maybury Elementary School, she fascinated me. I fell in love with the petite, leggy girl with striking blue eyes and a head of blonde curls clipped back in pink barrettes. She sat across from me at the table of four and smiled a dazzling smile. I listened, a painfully shy five-year-old boy, as she talked excitedly about our first day of school.

Now, grown into a beautiful woman with the same captivating eyes and silky curls, Jovie sits across from me, lips bowed into a half-hearted smile. I haven’t seen you in a long time, Cam.

I have stayed away. I shake my head in an act of quiet frustration and look away. Maybe that’s the wrong thing to say.

Get it together, Cam. You are screwing this up. Find the right words before you speak.

When I look back, her expression is unreadable. You have lived your life, Cam. I have lived mine.

I haven’t really been living, Jov. I can’t without you.

I am sorry, Jovie, about Grant.

I am sorry you met him, sorry you married him, and sorry you grieve for him.

Tears well up in her beautiful blue eyes and a fresh batch of guilt slaps at me.

Thank you. With trembling fingers, she wipes the tears as they spill onto her cheeks. I’m sorry. She looks away. I hate all these tears.

It’s okay.

More than anything I want to touch Jovie, to gather her in my arms, hold her, and let her cry on my shoulder, but I doubt she wants that from me. We are merely strangers now.

Some days are hard. Her voice cracks, and so does my heart. Another piece breaks for her. Today is one of them. She huffs a sigh and drops her hands on her lap. I am angry with Grant for leaving me. As if he had a choice. Jovie’s watery, guilt filled eyes hold mine and plead for understanding.

As I sit here, closer to her than I have in years, in this moment of raw emotion, the realization washes over me. The love I feel for her runs deeper than I ever imagined.

On impulse, I grab her hand, soft, pale, and delicate, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her eyes soften in perhaps an appreciation of the gesture.

My heart melts and my guard lowers enough to speak of my mother, a topic I rarely broach. I think it is normal to feel angry. I remember feeling angry after mom died. Someone told me it was a part of grieving.

Leta Owens, my best friend’s mother, held me in her arms as I cried for my mother. I was a fourteen-year-old boy angry at the world, everyone in it and everyone gone from it for my loss, my situation. It was one of the few times I broke a façade over her death.

The Owens household was like a second home after mom died. Steve and Leta Owens took me in any time I needed refuge. While others were leery of my father, Steve and Leta pretended they weren’t. My father was a fumbling drunk, known for his variable moods. The Owens acted as if it didn’t matter. They were even kind to my father. As an adult, I understood they did it for me and I appreciate it to this day. They are my stand in parents. Steve and Leta Owens are two of the best people I know, and they raised a good man, one of Maybury’s finest, Cade Owens, police officer and incredible friend.

Jovie’s eyes cast downward and the sorrow in them tugs at my tender heart.

I guess I shouldn’t feel so guilty then.

Feel however you want to feel, Jov. Guilt is a part of grieving, too. My fingers itch to tip her chin up for her deep blue eyes to stay on mine.

My heart aches, a deep ache for her. Jovie’s raw emotion calls out to me on a primal level as a man needing to protect and comfort what is his. Strong emotions make me uncomfortable, and I usually shy away, but not today, not with Jovie, never again with Jovie. Her pain and sorrow are mine now. We will get through this together.

Jovie’s tongue slips over her smooth lips, wetting them, and for a moment, I want to press my lips to hers in a soft, gentle kiss. I look away, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole for wanting her when she is in such a vulnerable state.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I am still alive, and he isn’t. She confesses with her head bowed.

I can’t say I ever felt that way about my old man. When Cameron Mason Senior died, I was glad he was gone, couldn’t rejoice enough, and I never felt a bit of guilt about it. My mother, her death, was an entirely different story.

I am sure Grant wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.

Jovie shakes her head. No. He wouldn’t.

She stops. Her glittering eyes land on mine and search for what I don’t know. How have you been, Cam?

I have been okay.

I won’t share how not okay I have been. She doesn’t need to know that I haven’t been sleeping well since Grant’s death. That I have been drinking again and worried sick about her. Jovie doesn’t need that burden too.

Her warm pools of deep blue study my face and I feel self-conscious. You look tired, Cam.

I haven’t been sleeping well. I shake my head and reiterate, I’m fine, and give her my best smile.

How is Nina?

The question comes out of left field, like a curveball to the gut, catching me off guard. Why would she want to know about Nina? I can’t even recall the last time I thought of my ex-girlfriend.

I look into Jovie’s eyes. Honestly, I don’t know. Nina and I haven’t been together for over a year.

Nina and my relationship disintegrated like every other relationship since Jovie. The reason was simple. Nina wasn’t Jovie. I couldn’t give Nina my whole heart, and she left.

I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

Jovie’s voice, soft and apologetic, slashes me with more guilt.

It’s alright. It’s been a long time. I reassure her.

I clear my throat, trying to push down the nervousness clawing its way out.

She needs to know you are here for her, even if you sound ridiculous and desperate.

Jovie, I just wanted to let you know that if there is anything you need, someone to talk to or help with something around the house, you can call me anytime. I slip one of my business cards from my pocket and offer it to her.

Jovie’s fingers curl around the card, and she gazes at me with a sad smile. Thank you. Everyone has been so kind and supportive.

Why wouldn’t they be? You would do the same for them.

With the shop, I have leeway. So, honestly, if you need anything, day or night, don’t be afraid to call.

Please lean on me. Please let me help you. I would do anything for you.

Jovie nods and a hesitant smile plays at the corner of her lips. Thank you. I am still muddling through all the aftermath, the paperwork switching everything over to my name. I am getting there slowly. She tugs at the cuffs of her sweatshirt and her eyes shift around. I am not even sure I want to live in this house anymore.

Good. That will make it easier. She can live with me when the time comes.

I resist the urge to shake my head at my very assuming and intrusive thoughts.

Geez, Cam. You are getting way ahead of yourself.

Give it time. You will figure it out. I say in a reassuring voice.

With her head down, Jovie chews on her bottom lip, a nervous habit as I recall.

How is work? I ask, grasping for something to talk about to cure the uncomfortable silence.

I watch spellbound as her lips curve into a beautiful smile, a genuine smile, and her eyes come to life, sparkling. I have only been back at work for a couple of weeks, but it has been wonderful. I need the distraction, and being around the kids makes me feel better.

The joy, the absolute radiance on her face, conveys her love of her job and the children she teaches. I imagine Jovie as the perfect kindergarten teacher, sweet and gentle with the children.

Jovie moved back to Maybury four years ago with her fiancé in tow to take over for the retiring Mrs. Wilson. Elvira Wilson held the position of kindergarten teacher at Maybury Elementary School for forty years. She taught two generations of children, and she was an amazing woman, a lot like Jovie. I wonder how Jovie feels replacing the woman who taught us the alphabet.

The kids made me cards while I was gone, and the cards were so sweet. Jovie clasps her hands over her heart and beams a smile as happy tears glitter in her eyes. The kids were so thoughtful, each in their own little way. I will keep the cards forever.

Her smile is infectious, and I can’t help the curving of my lips. I bet the kids missed you.

I am not sure if I am still talking about the kids or myself. God, I have missed her. I love her, and know I am a selfish man for wanting a woman so good, so sweet, so perfect. I am not good for her, but I desperately want to be.

Jovie nods thoughtfully, as if she has to think about whether the kids missed her.

I wager that every child she ever taught will remember her long into their adulthood. A person never forgets a teacher so soft-spoken, so kind and caring.

How are your parents? I ask. Not that I care. Her parents never liked me. I selfishly broach the topic to stay just a few more minutes.

Jovie draws in a breath, and there is a slight