And now my dick’s hard. “It is. You should have a piece.”

She stares longingly at the box. “I don’t eat that stuff anymore.”

“Why not?”

She waves a hand over her body, as if this explains anything. “Because this is better. And I might be fully recovered, but greasy foods still remind me of my binge-then-starve days.”

I frown as I look her over. She was always self-conscious about her weight. And then sometime between Paris and when she came to my hotel room in Chicago, she’d thinned out. I remember being worried about how frail she looked. “You had an eating disorder.”

She laughs, but the sound is dark and cold. “Yeah. Between grasping for control when Dad was dying to trying to deal with lifelong insecurities about my body . . .” She shrugs.

“I never understood why you were so self-conscious.”

“I know.” She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Intellectually, I know that you thought I was beautiful and whatever.”

“And whatever? I was head over heels for you just the way you were.” I hate the idea of her making herself sick.

“Does your family know?”

“Mom does. She’s the one who took me to the counselor after Dad died. She said her heart wouldn’t ever recover from losing Dad if she had to watch me waste away too. I asked her not to tell the boys, and she agreed. I’m all better now, though, so stop giving me that look.”

“But you still don’t eat pizza?” I take another bite and watch her consider how to answer this.

“Part of my recovery was identifying triggers for me—emotional triggers, food triggers. It’s not like I had a healthy relationship with food before I lost the weight. The anorexia was just a new manifestation of existing issues.” She shrugs. “So as I recovered, I had to deal with those issues and try to form new, healthy habits. I choose not to eat foods that make me feel angry with myself after. For whatever reason, I can drink a beer or have the occasional ice cream sundae without feeling like my life is spinning out of control, without feeling like food is some evil sin I’ve succumbed to again. But I associate pizza with . . .” She bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words in.

“With what?”

“Self-loathing?” She laughs, and I can tell it’s because she’s uncomfortable sharing that and not because she thinks anything’s funny.

“Does it bother you for me to eat in front of you?”

“Not at all. Seriously, I’ve come a long way. And I’ve learned to love my body through exercise. I love what it can do—how I feel after a long run or after squatting heavy weights.”