Today we have the blog tour for the much anticipated novel, SUIT, by BB Easton! Check it out and grab your copy now!
Title: SUIT
Series: 44 Chapters
Author: BB Easton
Release: October 18
About SUIT
Because BB Easton had so much fun writing her bestselling, award-winning memoir, 44 CHAPTERS ABOUT 4 MEN, she decided to give each of her four men his own steamy standalone. SUIT is Ken’s book—the hilarious, heartwarming tale of how BB finally got over her bad boy phase and found happily ever after with…gasp…a guy in a tie.
“Since when are you into guys in ties? You only like guys who look like they rob guys in ties. At gunpoint.”
It was true. By 2003, my type had been well-established. There might as well have been a giant sign on my heart that said, “Good Guys Need Not Apply.”
Which is exactly why I had to friendzone Ken Easton. The man was a former football star, smelled like fresh laundry instead of stale cigarettes, and had more ties in his closet than tattoos on his knuckles. Pssh. BOR-ING.
But the more I got to know my hunky study buddy, the more questions I came away with. Questions like, why doesn’t he date? Why does he avoid human touch? Why does he hate all things fun and wonderful? The psychology student in me became obsessed with getting inside Ken’s head, while the spoiled brat in me became obsessed with getting inside his heart.
In 2003, I found the one thing I love more than bad boys…
A good challenge.
*SUIT is Book 4 in the 44 CHAPTERS ABOUT 4 MEN spin-off series, but it can be read as a complete standalone.
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WRAPPED UP IN READING’s REVIEW OF SUIT
EXCERPT
“I like your red door,” I mused as Ken stuck his key into the deadbolt. “What does that symbolize? Aren’t red doors supposed to like, protect you from evil spirits or something?”
Ken chuckled as he pushed the door open. “I wondered the same thing, so I looked it up.” Holding the door open for me, he said, “In Scotland it means your mortgage is paid off.”
I giggled as I stepped inside, wondering who the fuck was paying this mortgage, when Ken flipped on the lights.
The interior was immaculate. Tasteful. And devoid of a single personal memento or photograph.
Oh my God, this isn’t even a private residence! It’s a model home! Ken tricked me! This must be where he brings all his victims!
The front door opened into a sparely decorated living room, painted a cozy shade of sage green. A staircase leading to the second floor was on the right side of the expanse. A stately, stacked-stone fireplace took up most of the left wall. And on the back wall a plush, camel-brown suede couch was flanked by two wide entryways, one into the kitchen and another into the dining room.
The light fixtures were steel. The coffee table was wooden. And the art above the couch was an eclectic collection of watercolor paintings and pen-and-ink sketches, mostly of the Eiffel Tower.
No, seriously. Who the fuck lives here??
“I…uh…love the color.” I stammered, taking it all in.
“Thanks.” Ken shut the door behind us, causing me to jump. “I did all the painting, but my dad helped me with the crown molding.”
I knew it!
“Oh, does he live here, too?” I unzipped my coat and wandered over to admire the wall of Eiffel Towers.
“No, but my sister does. She rents the master bedroom from me.”
So, a woman lives here. That explains all the Parisian art.
“That’s cool. Did she help you decorate?” I asked, focusing on one particularly good watercolor of Notre Dame cathedral after a rain shower. The wet sidewalks looked like mirrors.
“No. She just moved in a few weeks ago.”
“Really?” I turned toward Ken with my mouth hanging open and my jacket half-on and half-off. “So you bought this place and painted it and decorated it…by yourself? It’s so…” Domestic. Perfect. Empty. “…beautiful.”
Ken smiled shyly. Holding his black wool coat in one hand, he extending the other to take my jacket. I shrugged it the rest of the way off and gave it to him.
“Where did these paintings come from?” I asked as he walked over to a coat closet tucked beneath the stairs.
“I got those in Paris.” He answered, placing my jacket on a wooden coat hanger. “There are these street artists there who just sit on the corner drawing and painting famous landmarks all day. Their work is amazing…” Ken closed the closet door and turned toward me with a smile. “…and it’s really fucking cheap.”
A strange sense of déjà vu fell over me as I held his gaze. Only instead of feeling as though I was glimpsing into the past, I felt as if I were glimpsing into the future. Ken hadn’t decorated that house for himself—he’d decorated it for me. It didn’t make sense, but I felt it. I knew it. My soul saw that house and said home. My heart saw those paintings and said home. But when my eyes beheld that introverted, intelligent, handsome, gainfully employed, responsible, tattoo-free man they said home? with a very distinct question mark at the end.
Ken wasn’t my type, but perhaps my type was ready for an upgrade.
“How old are you?” I asked, watching him cross the room and sit on the couch.
“Twenty-three.” Ken kept his eyes on the channel guide on his big screen TV. “Have you seen About a Boy? It’s finally on HBO.”
I shook my head. Both in response to his question and in disbelief that he was so young to be so damn grown.
“You haven’t? It’s so fucking good.” Ken selected the movie and placed the remote on the coffee table. “Hugh Grant’s my favorite actor.”
I snorted.
“What?” Ken gave me the side eye.
“Hugh Grant isn’t anybody’s favorite actor.”
Ken laughed and turned to face me, doing a worse job at hiding his smile than usual. “I thought that too, until one day I realized I like every movie Hugh Grant has ever been in. Even Small Time Crooks, and I fucking hate Woody Allen. So I was like, Holy shit. I think Hugh Grant’s my favorite actor.”
Ken smile was infectious.
“You’re telling me you liked Bridget Jones’s Diary?” I teased.
“Yep.”
“Two Weeks Notice?”
Ken nodded.
“Notting Hill?”
“Are you kidding? Notting Hill is the best one. We’re watching it after this. I mean…” Ken’s eyes darted around the room as he cleared his throat. “If you want to.”
I smiled, basking in the unexpected cuteness that was Ken Easton. Desperate to soothe his sudden nerves and charmed by his adorable love of British romantic comedies, I leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on Ken’s chiseled mouth.
The moment our lips touched Ken froze, along with the very breath in my lungs, as I waited an awkward amount of time for him to kiss me back.
One Mississippi…two Mississippi…
Pulling away with my ego smashed and my cheeks ablaze, I dropped my eyes to avoid facing Ken’s rejection. As I stared at the ripped knees in my jeans and tried to come up with an airtight excuse for why I had to leave, Ken turned off the lamp next to the couch and started the movie. The gesture was subtle, but thanks to my downcast stare I definitely caught a glimpse of him adjusting the crotch of his slacks once the lights were out.
I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling.
Maybe I’ll stay…just a little longer.
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About BB Easton
BB Easton lives in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia with her long-suffering husband, Ken, and two adorable children. She recently quit her job as a school psychologist to write stories about her punk rock past and deviant sexual history full-time. Ken is suuuper excited about it.
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