When Girlfriends Find Love by Savannah Page

when girlfriends find love button

When Girlfriends Find Love by Savannah Page was a good book to read.  I have come to realize that chick-lit books are my guilty pleasure genre  I love that this author kept me wanting to know what was going to happen next even when you aren’t a huge fan of the genre of the  book.  I really did like the characters and the plot of this book.  The author did a great job of grabbing & holding my attention throughout this book.  There were a few slow spots but not so slow that I wanted to stop reading.  If you love romance novels than I know this is a book you need to add to your to be read list.

when girlfriends find love

About The Book

Sophie Wharton is in control. Whether life is going according to plan or throwing her for a loop, Sophie is determined to remain calm and in charge. It’s no wonder she’s the successful owner of one of Seattle’s most charming cafés, The Cup and the Cake. Her lemon meringue cupcakes, petite French treats, and cappuccinos always leave customers coming back for more. Naturally, her camaraderie of college girlfriends are still thick as thieves a decade later. And it should come as no surprise that she has her own cozy apartment in the hip part of town and grand goals for her future.

Of course Sophie has had her share of rough times, and recently some unexpected surprises have emerged. Her best friend Claire has moved across the state, the demands of her café are mounting, and some major changes among her circle of friends are shaking things up. But it’s nothing Sophie can’t handle.

When it comes to her love life, however, Single Sophie’s at a loss. She approaches it the way she does nearly everything in life–by trying to call all the shots. But love doesn’t work that way, and as Sophie examines her past relationships–thinking back on romantic trysts in Paris; college mistakes; the relationship responsible for the Year of Heartbreak–she must come to accept that love is an unpredictable, untamable, and often unexpected force.

This is the witty and heartwarming conclusion of the When Girlfriends collection, a novel about examining the past, moving forward, and following your heart. It’s a story about friendship, relationships, acceptance, and learning to love again. About what happens when girlfriends find love.

savannah page

About The Author

Savannah Page is the author of the seven-novel When Girlfriends collection, heartfelt women’s fiction that celebrates friendship, love, and life sprinkled with drama and humor. When she isn’t writing, Savannah enjoys a good book with a latte and jazz tunes, Pilates, and exploring her home of Berlin as an American expat.

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Excerpt

I never expected to see Chad Harris, of all people, in Paris that summer. But when he unexpectedly arrived for the sale of one of his paintings—a sweet deal his wealthy and well-connected father had helped set in motion—and when he’d called me up and offered to meet and hang out, I surprised myself when I pounced on the opportunity.

I think my exact words were, “Oh, yes! Please! That sounds awesome!

I’d been homesick having already spent several weeks in the City of Light solo, and it would still be another week before Claire and Conner would arrive for her surprise proposal. The idea of getting to spend some time with an old friend—an American and native English-speaking one at that—seemed as appealing as an early evening session at Studio Tulaa or an afternoon of shopping with one of my girlfriends.

I should have known, though, that it would be only a matter of time before Paris would work her charm on two unsuspecting Americans abroad.

“So what’s it like here, Sophie?” Chad asked as we strolled the narrow and sloping cobblestoned rue Mouffetard, home to Paris’s Marché Mouffetard, a bustling market that, while feeling very medieval and European in style, was redolent of Seattle’s Pike Place Market with aromatic fromageries and fish stalls.

“Honestly?” I said. “Right here? Right now? I kind of feel like I’m back home in Seattle.” I laughed.

Chad said he caught my drift, but pressed for more.

“Oh,” I said breezily, “it’s as wonderful as all the books and films make it out to be. I mean, it’s Paris.

“Romantic city, huh?” He flashed me a sly grin as I halted in front of a fromagerie I’d been frequenting recently. Their selection of cheeses was to die for, reasonably priced, and, seeing how I was with art-lover Chad, worth a quick stop.

“Oh, please,” I shrugged off. “Romance? Me? Who are we kidding?”

“You’re not getting lucky in the City of Love?”

I cast him an icy gaze before saying, “So not talking about that with you. Now come on.” I ushered him nearer the aromatic shop. “Here’s something you might appreciate.”

“Stinky cheese?” He crinkled his nose as we drew nearer the busy shop.

“Look.” I pointed up at the façade, indicating the intricate murals. “Neat, huh?”

Chad gawked, head tilted back, as boisterous market purveyors and clamoring customers pushed and shoved about, knocking his wide shoulders slightly to the left and right.

Still staring up at the masterful artwork, commenting on how brilliant the design and technique were, I actually caught myself feeling something akin to kind-heartedness, maybe even affability, for Chad. I knew it wasn’t just the effect of an open-air market and artisanal food stalls—they always get me in a euphoric mood. I knew it wasn’t the murals—art can be evocative, but not so much when enjoyed with thick aromas of ammonia-heavy cheeses like Brie de Meaux and Epoisses. There could be only one reason why I was enjoying the company of Chad, and that was because I was a twinge homesick. His familiar face was quite welcome.

“So if you aren’t getting hot and heavy with some beret-wearing schmuck,” Chad said as we sauntered along the narrow street, “what are you doing with yourself, with your time?”

I gave him a playful punch in his thick arm.

“I’m going to classes, baking classes,” I said in an obvious tone. “You know it’s not like I’m on some long-term summer vacation here, skirting responsibility, running away from work, living in the lap of Parisian luxury.”

“I see nothing wrong with that if you are,” he said coyly.

“The classes are going really well.” I stopped in front of a stand overflowing with a rainbow-colored medley of flowers. “It’s nothing like U Dub, cramming for history exams and sweating bullets over writing the perfect term paper.” I bent down at the piles of wrapped dried lavender and breathed in deeply. Absolute heaven!

“We did that in college?” He laughed in mirth. “So what is it? Like, learning how to crack an egg?”

“Nooo,” I said, rolling my eyes. I bent down to breathe in the scent of some tuberoses. “Like learning how to make the properFrench croissant, or the proper madeleine, or learning how to keep your soufflés from collapsing. Oh!” I practically shouted. “Or how to make the cream for the macarons absolutely delectable—not too pungent, not too sweet, yet not too subtle. That is the challenge.”

I picked up one of the bouquets of lavender and fanned it about my nose as a mixed look of pleasure and bemusement covered Chad’s face.

“I’m serious. It’s hard work, the school.” I returned the lavender to its pile as soon as the wrinkled, grey-haired woman behind the stall gave me a suspicious gaze—a gaze that said I was to look and smell, not touch.

I flashed Chad a quick grin and said, “But the classes are fun. I’m so glad I decided to do this.”

“Yeah,” he said in a muttering kind of way, then he said something else I couldn’t quite make out as I moved a pace forward along the flower stall.

I stopped to admire an assortment of roses in a small oak barrel, and Chad began to chuckle under his breath, wagging his head slightly.

“Aren’t these gorgeous?” I gestured to the roses. “I mean, flowers somehow even smell and look better in Paris than they do in Seattle!”

“Gorgeous, indeed,” he said. “Here.” He plucked a peach-colored rose from the barrel and asked the grey-haired woman in horribly accented French how much it cost.

“Maybe you can put it in your hair or hold it or…” he said to me as he looked down at the rose he’d just bought. “A little vase in your apartment or something?”

“Thanks,” I murmured, suddenly feeling my cheeks flush, taken aback by the kind gesture.

“Here.” He handed me the rose, sheepishly holding it out, eyes still focused downward, just like a five-year-old boy who’s offering the neighborhood girl the daisy he’s plucked from his mom’s flower bed.

Worried he would sense my red complexion, I took the rose and hastily began to dig through my handbag for no apparent reason. I muttered how he didn’t have to do that—it was really sweet of him, and the rose was beautiful, but he didn’t have to.

“I wanted to,” he said smoothly.

I halted the vain search in my bag—a stupid way to stall and bide time for the blushing to subside. I pointed with the rose on down the cobblestone lane. “Shall we? Walk? More?” I cleared my throat and awkwardly tucked some hair behind my ear, keeping my eyes focused on the silky folds of the perfect rose.

I could still feel my cheeks blushing, but Chad didn’t seem to notice or care when our eyes finally met and he said, “You know, all your talk about baking class got me craving something sweet.” He rocked slowly on his heels.

“Oh?” I said in a squeamish-sounding voice. I batted at the already-tucked-away piece of hair.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on my lower back, ushering us forward against the throngs of marketers. “There’s got to be a bakery around here somewhere.”

I stepped forward sprightly, escaping Chad’s touch to my back, becoming acutely aware that homesickness may not have been the only force at play. Paris, ever the charming city, had something up her sleeve. And nothing in the world could have prepared me for what that something was.

FTC3

Margaret Tidwell

I am a 33-year-old blogger. I write about my life and my struggles with Multiple Sclerosis. I also am a huge bookworm, and I have been doing book reviews for years now. I even blog about adoption, Multiple Sclerosis, and things that go on in my life.

Margaret Tidwell

Margaret Tidwell

Margaret Tidwell

Margaret Tidwell

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Comments

  1. Love this series!
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