Malibu, 2:47 AM

The sound of the fridge door creaking open yanked her from her thoughts.

Standing in the dim glow of the open fridge was Van fucking Ashford. Same sharp jaw, same infuriatingly lazy posture—except now his forearms were inked in black, lines of tattoos that definitely weren’t there three years ago. He stood there like he hadn’t just broken into her house in the middle of the night after vanishing off the face of the earth.

Her chest tightened.
“Are you actually insane?” she hissed. “You broke into my house.”

Van didn’t even look up, just grabbed a container and popped the lid open, the scent of parmesan chicken filling the air. “Your parents’ house,” he corrected, unbothered. “You’re just on babysitting duty.”

Her nails dug into her palms. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to—” She exhaled sharply. “What the fuck are you even doing here?”

Finally, Van glanced at her, hazel eyes gleaming with amusement. “Eating.” He speared a piece of chicken with his fork, chewing like he had all the time in the world. “Not bad. Where’s it from?”

She narrowed her eyes.
“That new Italian place.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Oh yeah? You go alone?”

Her silence was answer enough. Van smirked. He was enjoying this.

And she wanted to slap him for it.

She crossed her arms. “For the record, breaking into someone’s house is still illegal, even in Malibu.”

Van hummed. “Then call the cops, love.” Another bite. Another lazy glance at her. “Or…” He jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Want to wake up your little engineer boyfriend and ask him to do it?”

Her stomach twisted.

Van licked some sauce off his thumb.
“So… you wanna ask him to leave? Or should I?”