When Caroline Piasecki's ex-boyfriend posts their sex pictures on the Internet, it destroys her reputation as a nice college girl. Then a guy she barely knows rises to her defence and punches her ex to the ground. West Leavitt is the last person Caroline needs in her life. NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY LIBRARY JOURNAL In Robin York's sizzling debut, a college student is attacked online and must restore. When Caroline Piasecki's ex-boyfriend posts their sex pictures on the Internet, it destroys her reputation as a nice college girl. Suddenly her once-promising.
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Deeper book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. In Robin York's sizzling debut, a college student is attacked online and. Editorial Reviews. Review. “[Robin] York's beautiful prose and vivid descriptions enhance the realism and impact of Caroline and West's story. Deeper and. Deeper (Caroline and West, part 1). When Caroline Piasecki's ex-boyfriend posts their sex pictures on the Internet, it destroys her reputation as a nice college.
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Other books by Robin York. A Novel Robin York. Bantam, July List Price: Recently Viewed Products. Robin York. Small Great Things: Jodi Picoult. Big Little Lies. Liane Moriarty. Dangerous Games: Danielle Steel.
I sagged against the desk. It sank in immediately, traveling some kind of shortcut path from my eyes to the area of my brain that had made a quiet, private list of the consequences of those photos the second Nate took them. Everyone will see you, mock you, hate you. This changes everything. Seeing those pictures—I was devastated. Bad idea, the radar told me.
Such a bad idea. But I overrode it, because Nate was in a mood, and I thought if I went along, it would bring him out of it. You trust him, I told myself. Nate would never.
But he did. He must have. The website identified me as Caroline Piasecki from Putnam, Iowa, and Nate was the only one who had those pictures. Either he put them there, or he gave them to someone who did. There were two shots of my face smiling. And the other, even dirtier pictures. Three of them. The page had four hundred sixty-two comments.
I guess it was college that did it. Nate was cute, popular, smart. Flattering to be noticed by a boy like that. But at Putnam, I had started to think maybe there was something missing between him and me. Better chemistry. A deeper connection. We shared a pizza and drank soda, and I tried to explain my reasoning without hurting his feelings. I thought I had pulled it off pretty well. I would have said he was a nice guy.
That we were still friends. Because who expects that? I sank down into the desk chair and thumbed through the first few screens of comments. Then the next few. Screen after screen.
She has nice tits. I want more vag! Every word I read—every filthy thing some basement-dwelling Internet creep said about me—I thought, This is my fault.
My fault, my fault, my fault. I never should have let Nate take the pictures. I knew it.
I knew it when he took them, I knew it after, I knew it when we broke up and I had this fleeting, urgent impulse to beg him to let me delete every single photo of me off his phone. I sat there for a long time, scrolling and reading, wiping tears from my eyes with the back of my free hand. I was panting more than breathing, panicking more than thinking, too disoriented to have anything like a coherent plan.
I think I was mourning the end of something without even knowing it had ended. My youth, maybe. The sunny, perfect part of my life.
I thought about how she would come back to the room and she would have seen.
She would know, and I would have to face her. It would be everybody.