Author's Note:

Hey everyone! I've been working on this TVD Human/AU for quite some time, and decided to publish part of what I have. In this fic, Elena lives in California, where her family has owned a restaurant for generations. Yes, I decided to write a fic where Elena could cook, because we don't technically know that she can't and I like thinking of her running a business that she grew up in, in her early 20s and feeling completely stuck. Please let me know what you think! Enjoy :)

Arms of the Ocean

Chapter One: Looking Up From Underneath

There's a moment when the world ceases to exist. When nothing matters. When black represents more than the absence of white. The future is a massive void. The past….a distant memory. So fragile that there's an innate fear of shattering it if it's touched. So, I pretended that I was someone else. I was fine, because that's what they wanted to hear. No one really wants to have that conversation. I don't want to have that conversation.

The radio blares some pop song that must be on repeat. I toss in my bed, flail to the other side, tossing the white duvet over my head, but the March sun shines into my room, further preventing of contact with the snooze button.

I throw off the covers and walk to an open box in the corner of my room. A note lay on top, "Wear these. You look ridiculous." Oh Care! She'd been sending me clothes she got for free from her job. I think they'd been styling a shoot for a fitness magazine, because the box was full of Lululemon clothing. I still had the clothes from last week, from All Saints, tucked in the corner of my closet.

Being the assistant one of the most sought after stylists in Los Angeles had it's perks. Being the best friend of the assistant to one of the most sought after stylists, meant that I was continually subjected to lectures on dressing like you want to live and how you dress is how you choose to present yourself to the world. I'll stick to my Lunch Box tee-shirt, jeans and chucks, thank you very much.

Placing the note on my dresser, I dig into the box. A few sports bras, one in a peach color that was more of a crop top, meant to come a couple inches above my belly button. A few tank tops, leggings and shorts so short, that if I pulled them up a fraction of an inch too high, you could see the curve of my ass. I giggle. Caroline was obviously trying to send me a message. Get the fuck out of bed before the world passes you by. And also, You dress like a sad, kicked puppy would dress.

Folding the clothes back into the box, I walk to my dresser and find an old Destiny's Child concert t-shirt and my black Nike leggings. I quickly get dressed, slip on my Asics, pull my hair in a tight bun, put on my worn Stanford baseball cap, and clip on my music, I head out the door. Music fueling my motivation, I start running at an even pace.

Running is the only thing that's get me sane. Everyday I woke up and went, not because I was trying to lose weight or I was planning on completing a marathon, but because it felt so good and normal. Something I've always done and has been a consistent my entire life. I loose myself in the music and the beautiful scenery of Newport Beach, California. It's just me, views of the ocean and my music. Caroline calls it my addiction, and I can't say that I completely disagree. I get really depressed if I have to miss a day, or when I feel the tension of an injury and have to rest my legs.

After a couple of miles into my route, I feel something next to me. Something similar to a charge of electricity, a warmth starts to spread through my body. Someone's running next to me. This sometimes happens. Another runner will either pass you or run beside you to help with pacing. In a mile, whoever was beside beside me would turn and we'd go our separate ways. Without being obvious, I cock my head to the side. The most gorgeous creature, with perfect form, keeping his eyes focused on the road, was next to me. He was wearing a Dodger's baseball cap, and had a strong jaw with a little stubble. My eyes scan his body, observing his clothing, a sleeveless long running shirt and shorts. He's lean, but you can see clear lines defining muscle definition in his arms. Just as I was trying to figure out what color his eyes were, I feel the air leave my lungs as I trip, and as I was about to land face first in the asphalt, I feel his strong hands grab me, pulling me to my feet.

For the briefest of moments, we're dangerously close. My face, inches from his chest, I look up. His eyes are the clearest blue I've ever seen, like he was born directly from the ocean and unlike any other eye's I'd gazed into, then my eyes drift to his lips. They look….delicious. The bow wet with sweat, tempting me to lick it off. Cocking my head to the side, I start to say something, but he lets go of my arm, turns, and starts running again.

Oh, this was humiliating. I fiddle with the volume on my Shuffle, and continue my run. Thinking he'd go straight down the road, as I took my usual right, but he continues to follow beside me. When we reach the stop light at Magnolia, I was about to just run through it due to the lack of cars so early in the morning, but he holds out his arm, preventing me from moving until the light turns green.

I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what to say. Stop pacing me? No, I actually was kind of enjoying his company. Bonus being, my run was going faster than usual today. Plus, what if this was just a coincidence? He's probably a tourist in town and wants a local to show him a route. Fine. I'll let him follow me.

He continues to run beside me, until a half mile before I reach my cottage, when I feel his warm presence leave. The moment he leaves, I turn to see if I could tell where he was going, but he's gone. Disappointed, I decide to walk the rest of the way home.

XXXXXX

After taking a 5 minute shower, blindly putting on moisturizer, pulling my wet hair in a bun, throwing on one of my many blue and yellow vintage Lunch Box t-shirts and squeezing into a pair of jeans, I hop on my bike and headed out for the day. I don't own a car. I have my license and I'm sure there are people out there who think I'm a decent driver, but The Lunch Box is only a mile away from my house, located right off of the Pacific Coast Highway, and I have yet to find a real need for a car. Luckily, the farmer's market was on the way.

I arrive at The Lunch Box, locking my bike in the back, and carry my groceries to the back door. Pulling keys out of my messenger bag, I open up. Still relatively early, I turn on all the lights. The Lunch Box may have existed since the 1930's, but we kept it updated without getting rid of the integrity of the establishment. The restaurant is all white, with wood paneling, blue and white striped awnings are above the outside windows, and a large deck in the front where we served most of our customers that overlooked the ocean. The kitchen is tiny and hasn't been renovated in 10 years, but we kept the equipment in relatively good condition. The gas stove had been there since my grandmother ran the restaurant, and a lot of the cast iron pots and pans had been around since the 30's.

I rest the groceries on the counter, when I hear a knock at the back door. "Hey Pete," I say as I open the door for him. Pete's short and boisterous. He doesn't talk, he bellows, and he's been delivering fish to our restaurant since I was 8. He always smells of the sea, and he consistently delivers to our restaurant first so we get the best pick. He's carrying a couple of crates, and walks in heading to the counter.

"Elena! How've you been do'n? I've got some great options for today's menu."

"I'm good Pete! How are the kids? Did you give Ashley the copy of Little Women I lent you?"

"I did! She's been hauled up in her room crying over some character named Beth. Thanks for letting her borrow your copy."

"It's no problem! My mom gave it to me when I was about her age, so Ashley can keep it."

I could feel heat creeping up my cheeks at my words. Shit! Why did I let my mouth run of like that? Pete immediately gets quiet and looks down at his boots, shuffling his feet. "Jeez Elena, I'm…."

Not even letting him finish I say, "So, what did you bring me?"

Pete glances back up, and looks as though he was trying to decide if he should comment on the huge elephant that entered the room. Thankfully, he ignores it, as was the habit of most people around me. "I've got some fresh bluefin for you and salmon steaks."

I giggle, "Yes to the bluefin, hell no to the salmon steaks."

Pete's trying to lighten the mood with a continuous argument we had. I hate salmon steaks, but he continually tried to pawn some off on me, telling me I could make something brilliant with them.

I took care of Pete's delivery, putting the fresh mahimahi, tuna and lobster in the walk in refrigerator, and started prepping for the day, chopping onions and celery, roasting chicken for the smoked chicken almond salad sandwiches, and I started the brioche bread and buttermilk buns, until Scotty and Ben arrived. Scotty and Ben took over for their Aunt, who used to work with my mom. I've known them for years, and was pleased a couple of years ago when Amy decided to move to the Bay Area to live with husband number three, that Scotty and Ben wanted to take over after they both graduated from college, and wanted to do something locally. The only culinary experience they had was hanging out in our kitchen while their Aunt and my mother cooked, but it was enough.

The morning went by fast, and before I knew it I was in the weeds after being open for a couple of hours. The restaurant was full of tourists and locals, and I spent much of the early lunch service managing Suz, who was emotionally unstable after being dumped by her boyfriend and Brody, who decided to come in hung over. "Suz, table 3 on the patio needs their bread basket and their order taken," I say to her in the kitchen while she cries by the dishwasher.

"But you don't understand. I was going to spend Christmas with his family. I thought he was going to propose!" She blubbers into a handkerchief.

It takes an immense amount of effort to not roll my eyes. "I am sorry about what your going through, I really am, but I need you pull yourself together and help. You can leave early, if you need to. I'll clean the front."

Nodding, she finally complies, and starts walking back out front. As she opened up the swinging door, I see a glimpse of a figure and hear a familiar voice that causes my heart to race and my hands to tremble. Shit! How could he be here? He's supposed to be at Stanford. I need to hide. I need to run home. I need to not be here right now. He can't see me like this, literally in the exact same position as the last time he saw me. Shit. Fuck. I hide behind the door, praying Suz would know to say I wasn't here.

"Is Elena here?" he says.

"She's in the kitchen, I'll get her," Suz squeaks.

Suz opens the door, and making eye contact with her I mouth, "I'm not here". She catches on, and turning around and blocking the door. "I'm sorry, but she's not here right now."

"I saw her bike out back, I know she's here. She never leaves this place in the middle of a lunch service."

I can hear him make his way to the kitchen, and before I could run out the back door, Tyler Lockwood walks through the door. He takes up most of the door way. Tyler casually folds his arms and leans against the frame, giving me a once over. He's like a statue that I would have seen at the Getty during one of our field trips, the muse of an Italian renaissance artist. He played sports year round, from football to running cross country. I hadn't seen him in over a year, but I knew he was at Stanford studying business.

"That shirt always suited you," he says by way of greeting. I wish the floor could swallow me whole. The hidden innuendo. Ugh.

Suz stands behind him mouthing, "I'm so sorry," and then immediately disappears. Run and hide, you traitor!

Throwing my shoulders back, I straighten up and plaster a smile to my face. Might as well get this over with. "Hey Tyler, how have you been?"

Walking into the kitchen, but still looking me up and down, he says, "Oh, I'm getting ready to graduate. I'll be interning at Dad's company in January. I was here interviewing."

This took me by surprise. Tyler's dad was Richard Lockwood, owner and CEO of Lockwood Enterprises. His family pretty much owned all of the real estate in Newport. "I thought your Dad would start you off as vice president of commercial real estate or something, not an intern."

Tyler laughs, tossing his head back. "I wish. You know my Dad. He wants me to start from the bottom up and get to know the company. He's making me go through the whole interview process and everything. I even have to take a drug test."

"Well, stay away from poppy seed muffins," I say, cringing as the words escape my lips.

"What?" he says, trying to stifle a laugh.

Oh my god. I need serious help. I should not be allowed to have human interactions. "You know, because if you have poppy seeds in your system, they've been known to produce a false positive on your test," I try to explain.

Tyler smirks, "You know some things never change. You're still a wealth of random information, and yet you never seem to say anything at all. Still writing your actual thoughts in that damn diary?"

I nod at nothing, ready for this experience to be over with. "So, how can I help you Tyler? We're in the middle of lunch service, and I'm needed out front."

"I just…." he pauses, thinking about something, "I wanted to see how you were doing, after everything."

What an ass. Too little, too late. I was done. "I'm fine. I'm really okay. Feel free to have Scotty or Ben make whatever you want to take to-go."

Tyler nods, and makes out to say something, but decides against it, and says, "No need Elena. I'll leave."

The second he was out of my sight, I pull out my phone and send Caroline a text message.

Me: A pain in the ass ghost has emerged from our past

A few seconds later, Caroline responds.

Cary: WHAT HAPPENED?

Me: Tyler Lockwood

Caroline: I'll be right there.

I was cleaning up the front of the restaurant post lunch service, after totaling out the register and getting a bank deposit ready, while a very apologetic Suz left early. Caroline runs through the door, and seeing my expression, immediately gives me a too tight hug. I stiffen. "Do you want to talk about it?" she says into my hair.

Brody walks through the kitchen into the front of the house, wearing his white apron, dirty from the service, "Elena, I just finished up the dishes, and Scott and Ben left for the day. I can clean the front and lock up, if you want."

I smile at him, breaking away from Caroline's hug. "It's okay Brody, I'm almost done here. Thanks for the offer."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night Elena." He turns around to leave.

Caroline has her arm around my shoulder, directing me to a chair from a nearby table. "Sit. I'll be right back."

I sit in the wicker chair, picking remnants of food off of my apron. What am I even doing? I had so much I needed to do. I still had to go to the bank and make a list of things to do tomorrow. I can't drag Caroline down with me. Especially with her leaving for Paris in a few days.

Caroline comes back carrying two crystal tumblers and a bottle with lovely amber liquid, dancing as she walks. "Breaking out our secret stash," she says, sitting across from me and pouring me a glass.

I take a sip and the bourbon luxuriously burns my throat. I sigh with satisfaction. My weakness. Vintage Bombergers. Single barrel. I can still remember my mother pouring a glass after lunch service, sitting on the wicker couch we had in the front, watching me build with large legos on the floor with Jeremy while Jenna finished totaling out for the day.

We sit in silence while Caroline pours herself a glass and takes a sip. I lazily spin the glass, feeling the smooth ridges of the crystal. "Talk Elena Gilbert. You worry me when you get this quiet."

"My mother said the secret to good pie crust, was to put vodka in it when you bind the flour and butter. Something about the alcohol helps create a flaky crust. We used to sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on the scraps and bake them off," I pause taking another sip.

"She told me to leave," I pause, tracing the rim of the glass with my index finger. "Did I tell you that? She told me to leave Newport and carve out a life for myself. See the world. I used to pour over old National Geographic magazines she kept around. Looking at pictures of Azec ruins. Castles in Germany and France. Writing stories and pasting pictures of the places I'd travel in my journal. I don't know what she'd think of me now."

I continue to look at my glass, refusing to meet Caroline's eyes. "You don't think she'd be proud of you? You took care of Jenna, driving her to doctor appointments, sitting with her when she went through chemo. You're taking care of her family's business and actually doing a good job."

I nod my head, sadness and regret filling me to the breaking point. My eyes stung. I was being so selfish; if only Caroline knew what I was thinking and what I had wanted to say for so long. "It's not that."

Caroline frowns, pouring herself another glass. "I'm stuck. Tyler comes in and it all rushes back. The life I wanted to have. The one that's no longer possible. I'm happy to be here and I love this place, but…."

"…..you feel like you're not living," Caroline mutters, finishing my sentence. "I brought something for you." She reaches into the vintage Louis Vuitton messenger bag she brought, pulling out a file folder. Opening it up, she continues, "I know you thought you threw them away, but I thought one day you'd need to see them."

She fans out 5 pieces of paper, and pointing at each one, she says, "Harvard acceptance. Columbia wanted you. Duke gave you a partial scholarship. Stanford, full ride plus a spot on their cross country team, and U of O, full ride plus a spot on their track and field team. You, Elena Gilbert, can do anything you want."

I roll my eyes, tears freely flowing down my face. "I can't believe you kept those," I pause. "Actually, I can believe you kept those."

"And I will continue to keep them and show them to you when you are down on yourself, and send you free clothes I get that won't fit me."

I shake my head, and do what I always do. Compartmentalize until I am ready to deal. "I'm really proud of you, you know?" I say. "You worked your ass off since high school. Ruling your internship at Elle and getting the job assisting the one and only Pamela Haaz."

Caroline scowls in disgust. "Oh, I'm not done yet. I'm going to be The Stylist to the stars, even if I have to kill The Pamela Haaz."

I smirk, feeling the effects of the bourbon. I get up and attempt walking across the restaurant to get my keys and turn out the lights. "Looks like I'm walking the mile home. I don't trust you to drive me."

"I'm hurt Elena! My driving skills are top notch," Caroline says, fumbling to get the acceptance letters back in her bag.

"I'm going to miss you, Care."

She lazily turns to me. Caroline prefers white wine to hard liquor, and it was the sign of a true friend that knew what I needed when I really needed it. "For the love of God, where something different tomorrow. You own this place, you don't have to wear the uniform. You'll feel better. Trust me."

I roll my eyes, reminded of the time freshman year when Caroline was trying to get me to join the cheerleading squad, and told me boys want a cheerleader not a cross country runner. As if I gave a fuck.

XXXXXX

I thought that there was no way the mysterious stranger would be back, but he'd been running along side me for the past week. I have no clue why. I can't be that good of a runner to actually think he was doing it to help his running. I decide to try something a little different. He still hasn't talked to me, and continually leaves when I start my cool down. I turn around and he's already gone, like a thief in the night. Completely bizarre and annoying.

I get up and start digging through the Lululemon box, I pull out a lilac A-line tank top, that had a triangle opening in the back, exposing the briefest bit of my sports bra and the small of my back. I decide to wear it with matching ombre print shorts. I take my time pulling back my hair into a bouncy pony tail, and decide to forgo the cap. I was never going to tell Caroline that I decided to take her up on her advice and dress like I cared.

I was enjoying my run, when I felt the familiar warm presence from the day before. Still not speaking, he ran on my left side, buffering me from traffic. I refused to look his direction, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. But I could feel his eyes bore on me, and from my peripheral I could tell he was looking at me. I continued to act unaffected, picking up my pace. I'd run every day, sometimes twice a day, for most of my life and I wasn't going to go easy on him today.

I continued to pick up my pace, until I was at a relaxed sprint. He easily kept up with me, sticking to my left side, and holding out his right arm at every traffic light. Our legs moved in unison, feet pounding the pavement at the same time, which was incredible considering he was so precise and powerful in his stride. There was a level of adrenaline that surged through me, and I was about to go flat out for the last couple of miles, when we hit the final stop light before the last leg of my running route. Knowing at this time in the morning no cars would be coming, I ducked under his arm and bolted across the street.

I could feel him chasing after me, but kept going, running as fast as I could, until I could feel his hand grab my arm and with obvious strength, he twists me around, pushing my whole body against a nearby tree. His eyes darken as he looks down at me, his lips curling in amusement. I was out of breath, unable to find words to say, I could feel heat rise in my cheeks. He casually pulls the ear buds out of my ears. I shiver at his touch, immediately wanting more, not caring that this man was a complete stranger.

"Don't ever run away from me," he says, his voice smooth and controlled.

Oh god, this was both hot and irritating. I try breaking free from his iron clad grip, but he just holds me there, against the tree. Somehow, I'm able to form words into something that resembled a stuttering sentence. "Don't tell me what to do."

He leans in closer, resting one arm against the tree, the other brushing a strand of hair from my face, letting his hand graze my neck, he finds his way to my ponytail and twisting it in his hand, he tugs it, pulling me up so I'm looking at him. God he smells good, like sweat and clean linen. "I think you need to be told what to do more often," he says in almost a whisper, dangerously close, the brim of his cap brushing my forehead.

Red hot bubbling anger surges through me. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Obviously he thinks he's God's gift to women. Well, maybe technically he is. Using the only tool I could think of, I lift my knee and with all my strength, slam my foot onto one of his feet. I get the desired result, he steps back, cursing. While he's distracted, I bolt away from him. Running flat out, I turn around a couple of times to see if he was following me. He wasn't.

After 15 minutes, I reach my cottage, walk up the stairs to my porch, and glancing at the porch swing that I haven't sat on in years. Pulling the keys out of my back pocket, I turn around one more time to see if my stalker had followed me here. Realizing I probably completely burned him off, I turn the key and walk in. Out of habit, I reach for my ear buds to pull them out, but remember he had pulled them out. Looking down, I see the buds still dangling out of my shirt. I unclip the Shuffle, placed it and the keys in the bowl I kept on the table by the front door, and walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water and a handful of gummy bears that I kept in a large glass jar. Breakfast of champions.

After a longer than usual shower, I change into one of my many Lunch Box t-shirts, and skinny jeans. Slipping on a pair of converse sneakers, I grab my messenger bag, and head for the restaurant. By the time I get there, I see Pete's truck waiting for me in the back. I hop off my bike, to meet Pete at the door. "Hey Pete! Have anything good for me today?"

Pete smiles, following me into the restaurant with a couple of crates. Resting them on one of the kitchen counters, he says, "You seem cheerful today. Sound like the girl I used to see studying taped up European history terms above the sink while doing dishes. You look good Elena. Happy."

"Oh, Pete!" I say laughing, "That was so long ago, and honestly how else was I going to remember what the hell happened in the Prussian War?"

Clearing his throat, he says, "Elena, you've been doing such a great job, especially after everything that's happened, but I need to tell you something."

Concern etches his face, and his brow furrows. "You're past 2 checks have bounced. I've let it go, because we've been doing business for so long, but I can't let it…."

"What? That's impossible," I say, not letting him finish. "We have plenty of money in the business account. Let me write you a check from my personal account to cover the cost. I'll go to the bank today. There's probably a mistake."

I pull the checkbook out of my messenger bag and start writing him a check, "How much do I owe you Pete?"

Pete looks uncomfortable, and hands me the pink invoice. "You owe $1,520.00."

I suck in air. Knowing that if Pete's checks bounced, other's must have. I'd barely have enough to cover the costs. What was going on? I knew I shouldn't have taken Jeremy's advice and hired an accountant. This would've never happened if I was still in charge of the books.

I try to plaster a composed look on my face. The restaurant needs to keep a good relationship with Pete. He brought the best fish, and business was business, if we couldn't pay, he'd go to someone else. "No problem Pete!" I say as I sign the check.

Once Pete left, I immediately call our new accountant, Evan. He doesn't pick up. Of course he doesn't pick up. Something was going on. I pace the kitchen, angrily prepping for the day. Taking my fury out on the onions and garlic. Looking at my phone for the millionth time, and noticing there were no phone calls, I hear the back door open. The booming voices of Scott and Ben fill the kitchen. "Did you see that drop I did this morning? Man, it was sick."

"No, I saw you admiring Claire's ass, while she made incredible drops and you rode ankle busters."

"Shut the fuck up, Ben," Scotty says, punching Ben's arm.

They looked up, and stop in their tracks, seeing me standing in the kitchen, anger clearly visible on my face, holding a chopping knife in my hand. "Hey Gilbert," Ben says, warily.

"Put down the knife. We are not here to hurt you," Scotty jokes, putting his hands up in the air.

This made me giggle, immediately releasing some tension from the past hour. I place the knife on the counter, and the moment I do, Scott comes barreling toward me, picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder. "I've got her Ben! The criminal that entered our kitchen, must be put in her place."

I scream as Scott runs me to the dishwashing area and places me right in front of the sink. "This isn't the 1950's Scott! I have work to do!"

"No, you don't!" Ben says, "We've got it from here. Go take care of whatever is putting you in the mood of a serial killer."

I jump up and wrap my arms around Ben, kissing him on the cheek, and then doing the same to Scotty. "Claire's missing out!" I say, laughing as I leave the kitchen to go to my office.

My office is located below the restaurant. There was a small basement that was turned into a couple of offices back when my mother ran things. One office is mine and the other is used as a place to relax. We keep the wine in there, and a small refrigerator full of diet coke and more wine. It has a black leather couch and a desk with an extra Macbook on top. Through that office, is a door to my office. I walk in, placing my messenger bag on the chair opposite of my desk. The desk is 70 years old, and is the same one my great grandmother used when she started the restaurant and it primarily catered to people traveling from San Diego to Los Angeles. When my mother turned the basement into offices, she had the writing desk moved from the cottage. It is in incredibly good condition, made of oak and had a roll top with a pedestal drawer base. It also had my siblings names carved into the side, something my brother Jeremy dared me to do, and I ended up getting restaurant dishes for two weeks as a consequence.

I take the MacBook air out of my bag, and turn it on, logging into the business account for our bank. I type in the account number and password, but I hit an error page. I try again, and I get the same page. What? I call Evan again, but am, once again, directed to voice mail. Just as I'm about to head out to the bank, my phone lights up. Evan. Thank God. I pick up the phone. "Evan! Where the hell have you been? Pete told me that my checks have been bouncing."

"Elena, calm down," he says.

"You have some nerve telling me to calm down. I have half a mind to fire your ass," I say, anger rising in my voice.

"Listen to me. There was a problem with the account, someone got a hold of the account's information, so I had to change the account around. Everything should be back to normal within the next 24 hours."

"Don't you need my permission before you do anything to the account? You should've called me."

This didn't make any sense. Why would two, probably more, of Pete's checks bounced if this just happened? And how did he have so much control over our account? I could hear Evan sigh at the other end of the phone, clearly irritated. "When I started a few of months ago, you signed off on giving me power over the business account, just for emergencies like this."

I tried to calm down. Evan wasn't an idiot, he came highly recommended by Jeremy. Jeremy and he were in the same social circle in San Francisco. Jeremy going to art school, and at the time, Evan interning at some accounting firm while he finished up at Stanford. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Pete didn't try to deposit the checks until recently. I sighed, "Okay Evan, but I want to set up a meeting with you so we can go over finances. I don't know how I feel about you having full control over everything."

I could almost hear his eyes rolling. "This is my job Elena, and I'm busy today. I'm out of town, but I'll call you when I get back. I can do most of your finances remotely."

I resigned myself. "Okay, just call me when you get back."

After we hung up, I still had an unsettling feeling in my stomach. I'll talk to Caroline about it. She'll know what to do. We had a Skype session scheduled for this afternoon. She'd just arrived in France, and I was already missing her. Luckily, she was still on California and welcomed the distraction at all hours.

After calling some of our suppliers and checking my email, I head upstairs. Suz was busy getting the front end ready for opening when I came up stairs. "Ass is looking good in those jeans Gilbert," Suz jokes, slapping me on the butt and giving me a hug.

"This is a professional establishment Suzannah, and I will consider any ass slapping sexual harassment. But, commenting on my rack is perfectly fine," I joke.

Suz giggles, placing the white cloth she was holding into her pocket. "Tyler was ogling your rack. I'm sure he'd be happy to comment on it."

I blush, and my mind wanders to this morning and the way my mysterious stalker looked at me. "You like Tyler, don't you!" Suz accuses.

This stops me, and the realization that we had to open in five minutes came back. "We have to open in five Suz. Is everything ready to go?"

"Okay, change the subject. Couldn't blame you. He's rich and completely into you."

Ignoring her comment, I walked around the restaurant, opening the door to the deck and making sure all the flowers and herbs were watered. Finally making my way back to the front end of the house, I fluff the pillows in our seating area and get the keys to open up. There was a line out the door, and I smile at our first customer as I prop open the door. "Good morning Marian! It's good to see you. Are you meeting your daughters?"

Marian Combs has been coming to our restaurant every week, for the past ten years to eat lunch with her daughters. She was short with curly silver hair, pearl earrings and a kind smile. Whenever she hugged me, I immediately smelled like her Chanel No. 5 for the rest of the day, something I didn't mind.

I let the customers in, and within the next fifteen minutes, the restaurant was completely full, with people waiting to be seated. I was dancing between tables, trying to talk to all the customers that have been coming in for years, and giving recommendations of things to do to the tourists. Marion's daughters told me all about their children, and Isobel, her youngest daughter, asked me to go to her wedding reception. Really, I think she just wanted the Lunch Box to host her bridal shower. I smile at her verbal invitation, praying she wouldn't pursue. I hate large social functions, and found myself usually either hiding in the bathroom, or helping the catering staff do dishes.

I was heading to the kitchen to run an order, when I saw a familiar man walk in. He looked around the restaurant, assessing the business, until our eyes met. He looks out of place, stiff, in a suit and bow tie among patrons in their khakis, floral prints, and flip flops. He smiles, and I immediately walk up to greet him. "Hello, Mr. Lockwood. I haven't seen you in here for a while. Did you want a table? You might have to wait a few minutes for a table to open up."

He grins, "Elena Gilbert. Well aren't you the spitting image of your mother. I almost had to do a double take when I walked in."

"Flattery won't get you a table any sooner," I chide.

"Well, you can't blame me for trying," he pauses. "I'm actually here to talk to you, if you have a minute."

Just then, Suz walked up. "Elena, table 6 is asking for you, and Mrs. Combs wants to take a picture with you."

I look at Mr. Lockwood apologetically, "Sorry, I can't meet right now. As you can see, I'm busy," I walk behind the front desk, and grab one of my cards from the counter. "Here, call me and we can set something up. Suz would be happy to take your order, if you wanted to get something to go, on the house."

Richard Lockwood looked at the card, and then placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. "I'll have my assistant call you, and I'd love a smoked chicken almond salad sandwich to go. Your mother made the best chicken salad."

What was he trying to accomplish by bringing up my mother twice within one three minute conversation? "Well, it was nice seeing you Mr. Lockwood," I say, cutting the conversation short and attempting to conceal my irritation.

As I go in for a hand shake, he awkwardly embraces me in a hug. "You're a hard worker and doing a fine job running things. I can see why my son fancies you."

Okay, this just got weird. Tyler had no feelings toward me, and has only ever been a complete and total dick. I mean, there was a time in high school when we were good friends, but that ship sailed long ago. Pulling away, I politely nod and sheepishly walk away, towards Mrs. Comb's table. There was no way I was meeting with him anytime soon, I don't care if he owns half of Newport.

As our final customers left, I throw the keys to Suz, which she expertly catches to lock up while I close out the register. "Okay Gilbert, go. Leave. Skype with Caroline. I can finish up here. You've been in a bad mood ever since Mr. Newport came and demanded an audience."

I glare at her. "I've not been in a bad mood, and I'm perfectly capable of finishing up here and then calling Caroline."

"You yelled at Brody for not telling you about the low dishwashing fluids so you could order more, even though they're still half full. You never yell at Brody, even when he comes in high and smelling like he fell into a Cheeto factory."

I roll my eyes, "To be honest, Brody gets his work done faster when he's high."

Suz laughs. "Go home Elena. I already talked to Ben and Scott about finishing up. We'll be okay. This is what most bosses do, they delegate."

I dramatically throw my hands up in the air, "Fine! I'll go. Just don't burn the place down while I'm gone."

Once I get home, I switch on my computer and call Caroline. Within a minute her face appears. Her blonde hair is in a sloppy bun, like she's getting ready to go to bed.

"Hey you. How are the Parisians treating you?"

"They're lovely, it's Miss. Haaz that's being a demanding ass," she mumbles. Suddenly, her eyes light up like she's just remembered something. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"Rebekah Mikaelson agreed to follow me if I ever leave Pamela."

"Seriously? That's amazing. She's practically royalty."

"I know! She can be such a bitch when we have to sew her into something for an event, but getting her account is huge. I just need to develop more contacts before I take the #1 spot on Pamela Haaz's shit list."

"Haaz better watch her back."

"Damn straight. So, what's up? You have that doe-eyed-caught-in-headlights look."

Frustrated, I put my head in my hands. "My life is so weird," I groan.

"Get over yourself and tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

I look up and glare at her, immediately deciding to not tell her about my potential money problems. "I'm being stalked."

"Is he cute?"

I roll my eyes. "Caroline! This is serious. For the past week, this guy's been running along side me and then he just disappears."

"Is. He. Cute?" she says, punctuating every word.

I feel the color rise to my cheeks.

"He is! Oh my God. Elena Gilbert totally likes her stalker," Caroline chuckles, her blonde hair falling in her face.

"I don't know what to do!" I scream into the computer.

Caroline straightens and puts on her composed bossy face. The face I needed right now. "First of all, he's not stalking you. Stalkers hide in the shadows, he's out and out making himself seen. And I don't think that you think he's a stalker either, because you haven't exactly switched up your running route, have you?" she pauses. "You need to get his attention. Wear that nude sports bra I sent you and the oxblood leggings with that see through mesh strategically placed in all the right places."

"I cannot wear that. First of all, I'm actually running, and I like to be comfortable when I run, and second, it's so not me. I'd look like one of those attention seeing Newport socialites that bounce around the gym and do paleo brunches. I'd look like Katie Fucking Hamilton," I groan.

"Katie may have screwed Tyler on prom night, but the girl can dress."

"Caroline!"

"Sorry, but she had a nice wardrobe."

"Girl code. You are supposed to hate her with me."

"Fine. She's an evil slut."

"Better. I get your point, and I'll think about it."

"Come on Elena. You want him to actually talk to you, not just be your mute running buddy. Get out of your depressing hole and dress…"

"Like I care," I finish.