The Complete Maplewood Grove Bundle - ebooks

Welcome to Maplewood Grove, a picturesque small town nestled in the rolling hills of upstate New York, where love blooms beneath the canopy of autumn leaves and friendships blossom under the open skies. In this heartwarming collection of sweet romances, you'll meet charming locals who find themselves swept up in unexpected love stories that will tug at your heartstrings.

From enemies becoming lovers to friends discovering something more, this first volume of Maplewood Grove takes you on a journey through six captivating romances. Whether it's a grumpy bachelor softened by a sunny event planner or a fake relationship that turns into true love, each story weaves a tale of love, hope, and second chances.

If you love small-town charm, swoon-worthy romance, and heartfelt moments, you won't want to miss Small Town Moments. Perfect for fans of Jill Shalvis, Denise Hunter, and Molly Harper, this collection will make you believe in the power of love in even the quietest of places.

Sweet Rivals – Enemies to Lovers

Sweet Treats – Friends to Lovers

Sweet Time – Grumpy / Sunshine

Sweet Deal – Fake Dating

Sweet Secret – Best Friend’s Sister

Sweet Winter – First Love, Second Chance

Sweet Storm – Forced Proximity

Sweet Blossom – Single Mom, Fresh Start

Sweet Catch – Finding Home

Sweet Melody – Creative Souls, Slow Burn

Sweet Mistletoe – Holiday Romance

Sweet Valentine – Valentine’s Day Scavenger Hunt

Sweet Hope – Billionaire Meets Small-Town Life

Sweet Patience – Bickering to Belonging

Sweet Return – Healing, Homecoming

Sweet Solstice – Light After the Longest Night

Sweet Harvest
Chapter 1: Back to the Patch
Charlotte “Charlie” Brooks
At thirty-two, I never imagined I'd end up back where I began - in Maplewood Grove, with its storybook charm and tree-lined streets. This place feels like a remnant of the life I once left behind. Yet here I stand, suitcase in hand, on the doorstep of the house I called home. I shift my weight, balancing my suitcase against my hip, and knock on the door. The sound echoes, followed by the faint shuffle of footsteps and a muffled, “Come in!”
I push the door open, stepping into the familiar warmth of my childhood home. It smells like cinnamon and pine, though I’m sure that’s just her overzealous fall candles working overtime.
“Charlotte, is that you?” Mom’s voice calls from the living room.
“Who else would it be?” I reply, setting my suitcase down and walking toward her.
Lounging on the couch, her left leg elevated on a stack of pillows, a vibrant purple cast encasing her ankle and knee. Despite the injury, she looks radiant—her salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, her blue cardigan draped just so over her shoulders.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she says, holding her arms out. “Come give your mother a hug.”
I lean down carefully, mindful of her leg, and she wraps me in a hug that smells like lavender lotion. “Thanks for coming,” she says softly. “I know you’re busy.”
“Mom, you broke your leg. Where else would I be?”
Her face crinkles into a smile, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—guilt, maybe. “I just hate pulling you away from your life.”
I shake my head, brushing it off. “It’s fine. I needed a break anyway.”
She doesn’t press, and for that, I’m grateful.
* * *
Later, as I unpack in my old bedroom, she fills me in on what’s happening in town, the Pumpkin Harvest Festival looming large in her updates.
“The festival?” I ask, glancing out the window at the street below, where the neighbors have already decked out their lawns with pumpkins and hay bales. “Isn’t that months away?”
“Three weeks,” Mom corrects, folding her hands primly over her lap. “And I’m the head of the planning committee.”
“Was,” I point out. “I don’t think you’re running anything with that leg.”
Her smile turns sly. “That’s where you come in.”
I freeze halfway through unpacking my toiletries. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t even live here anymore.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “You grew up with this festival. You know it like the back of your hand. Besides, the committee could use some young blood.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-two. Not exactly a fresh-faced intern.”
“You’re younger than the Carltons, and they’re running the pie contest,” she counters. “Come on, Charlotte. It’s just a few weeks. Help me keep this thing afloat.”
I groan, leaning against the dresser. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”
She grins, victorious. “Deal.”
* * *
The next morning, I’m standing in the kitchen, coffee in hand, poring over the hefty festival binder. Its pages overflow with scribbled notes, schedules, and a sketch of what appears to be a pumpkin-shaped parade float.
“Just follow the checklist,” Mom says, wheeling herself in from the living room. “Oh, and be nice to Henry. He’s been a big help these last few years.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Henry Vaughn?”
“Yes, dear. He’s the town historian now, and he takes his role very seriously,” she says, not looking at me as she rearranges her pillows.
“Seriously? Henry Vaughn, the guy who used to prank the biology teacher by letting frogs loose in the classroom?”
“He’s matured,” she says with a knowing smile. “He even wears glasses now. Makes him look distinguished.”
I roll my eyes but say nothing, already bracing myself for the awkward reunion.
* * *
The community center smells like freshly baked bread and coffee when I walk in for the festival committee meeting. A wave of nostalgia hits me as I see the familiar faces of Agnes Carlton, Dot Simmons, and a few others who were practically fixtures in my childhood.
“Charlotte Brooks!” Agnes exclaims, her silver hair bouncing as she waves me over. “Back in town to save the day, I hear.”
“Something like that,” I reply, offering a weak smile.
As I take a seat, I hear his voice before I see him.
“I didn’t realize we needed saving.”
I turn, and there he is—Henry Vaughn, looking exactly the same and yet completely different. His dark hair is shorter now, and his face is more defined, but those piercing blue eyes are just as I remember.
“Henry,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Still the town’s golden boy, I see.”
“And you’re still avoiding eye contact when things get complicated,” he replies, his tone light but pointed.
The rest of the committee chatters on, but I’m locked in a silent standoff with him, the weight of our shared history settling in the space between us.
The cool night air brushes against my cheeks, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and burning candles. Henry’s hand, warm and steady, grazes mine, sending a shiver down my spine. The glow of the lanterns reflects in his eyes, making them impossibly blue, like the deep autumn sky.
When his lips meet mine, the world narrows to this moment—the crackle of distant laughter, the warmth of his touch, and the gentle hum of the lantern.
“Welcome back,” he says finally, his voice softer. “This should be…interesting.”
“Interesting,” I echo, my stomach flipping. That’s one way to put it.
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