Author's Note: Hi everyone! This fic is slightly similar to Arms of the Ocean, in that Elena is a runner, Damon is a rich businessman, and the story takes place in California, but it definitely is a different story. Elena is a teacher and unhappy with the direction her life is going and Damon needs her help. The question is, will Elena help this stranger? Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy. I have about 5 chapters already written, so I'll publish chapter 2 soon. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: My Beginning

When I was a little girl, the only time I could get my mother's attention was if I hung out in the kitchen while she made dinner. She'd be wearing one of my father's button down t-shirts over leggings, her chestnut hair effortlessly twisted in a french knot, showing off the oversized silver hoops she always wore. She'd add a pinch of brown sugar to the spaghetti sauce while it simmered, turn and look at me with her large hazel eyes and ask me how my day was at school.

I didn't tell her that I received a 30% on a spelling test, or that I got in trouble for racing the upper elementary boys after lunch, instead I asked her questions. I asked her what it was like growing up on a ranch, or moving to Los Angeles after her father died to work at the Ahmenson Theatre. She was so elegant as she told her stories, like having Jackie O stand across from me, telling me about the time she got her hair done next to Goldie Hawn.

Her solution to life's problems was to go for a run. If I had a head ache, or felt sick, she told me to go run a mile. I had to get my blood flowing. That was her logic, and ironically, it always worked. Like magic, I'd feel better once I arrived home. She ran every morning, sometimes nine miles. She never missed a day, even went for a run the morning she gave birth to my younger brother. The doctors thought she was some freak of nature, never yelled or screamed during deliveries. I asked her about it once, and she told me that she just pretended she was at the ocean and let the waves of pain wash over her.

I was never like her. She was kind and easy to be around. She ran marathons, and was committed daily to running in the morning. I ran off and on, late nights and studying were my go to excuses for not getting a run in. She could run without music and I needed it to keep me going. But suddenly, I stopped running. I moved to Los Angeles and I stopped running every morning. I couldn't let the pain wash over me, instead I let it carry me out to sea. I let my pain consume my every being until it pulled me to the depths of it's dark waters, where the surface becomes opaque, not allowing any sunlight to seep through.

They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result. Steadily, I was driving myself insane, distracting myself by sabotaging who I was. It was like I was on repeat everyday, and in the evening I'd swear the next day would be different, even though I'd end up down the same path of self destruction I was on the day before.

My brother wanted to send me to rehab and I told him to fuck off. I could solve the problem on my own, without vomiting my pain all over a three hundred dollar an hour therapist. I just had to stop. Stop and find a greater focus.

Gradually, I started finding my way. I made myself wake up every morning and go running, because that's what my mother had told me to do when I had a problem. It was hard, especially when I felt like my head weighed a ton and every orifice wanted to stay in bed.

Saturday morning runs were always the hardest, because I hated being seen. Paranoia hadn't gone away with sobriety and the California sun still gave me a head ache. Waking up to run before work meant I ran in the dark with the moon and stars watching over me. On Saturday mornings, I ran while people were at brunch or getting a late cup of coffee. Normality makes me sick.

When I saw this as a problem earlier on in my program, I started wearing baseball caps. I had several, with long bills to give myself the illusion no one noticed me. Music was essential, and played loudly to block out my own thoughts that people are looking at me because I've destroyed everyone I've ever loved.

With my hat pulled down, I ran down Wilshire, the last half mile of my run. I sensed someone following me, but ignored it, assuming it was either another runner or someone trying to catch the bus. When I reached CVS, I hit the stop on my Apple watch and started walking up the stairs. It was hot and I was drenched in sweat, so I immediately headed for the refrigerator to get a bottle of water, music still blaring in my ears. Unable to help myself, I twist open the cap and start chugging the water right there in the aisle. Sighing in satisfaction, I cap the bottle and walk to the counter to pay for my water, until I feel someone tugging my arm and trying to get my attention.

Completely put off, I spin around to look at who it is. With sweat dripping into my eyes, and Beyonce blaring in my ears, I just see a man wall. Someone very tall standing in my way. Keeping my eyes cast down, I attempt to walk away, down the holiday aisle, full Easter candy, bright green plastic baskets and multi colored eggs, but the Man Wall has hold of my wrist and is trying to get my attention. Resigning to the fact that in order to leave CVS and get home, I'd have to talk to this stranger, I take out my earbuds, tuck them into my back pocket and try to casually wipe the sweat from my face.

I look up, and because this man is so tall, I have no choice but to step back just so I can see him properly. I used to watch old black and white movies on Sundays after church. I'd always wanted to be able to look as graceful and effortless as Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly, completely independent of a man, but desired by all, and I wanted to be desired by someone like Gregory Peck or Paul Newman. Classic Hollywood, and this man wall standing in front of me could've been taken directly from any of the movies I used to watch.

He had deep blue eyes, raven black hair, cut short on the side, but left a little long on top, effortlessly parted to the side, and a strong jaw, with a cleft chin and a little stubble. He was wearing a blue henley that matched his eyes, with the sleeves pushed up showing off his tan arms and grey linen cotton shorts that came to just above his knees. He was completely out of my league, so I felt fully justified taking in the view. The moment he cocked his head to the side, I knew that I was staring too long. His lips quirked up, revealing dimples.

"I'm sorry," I stutter. "Did you want something?"

"Can I take you to breakfast?" he asks.

I look at him questioningly, to see if he's joking. "Why?" I reply.

He smiles, a real teeth showing smile. "I just want to talk to you."

I cannot believe I am having this conversation with this man, in my oversized mens t-shirt and leggings, completely drenched in sweat, in the middle of CVS. "But I don't know you," I reply. He may be an adonis, but I don't feel like being humiliated as a charity case. Maybe he's a casting director for Intervention. Does that show have casting directors?

He lifts his hand up to shake mine, which I give him. "My name is Damon Salvatore, you're Elena Gilbert and you teach 4th grade in Hancock Park."

That name sounds familiar, but it doesn't stop me from talking a large step backwards. "How did you know that?"

He just laughs. "You taught my nephew, Benji Salvatore, last year. My brother lives along your running route. She saw me watching you last week, and told me who you are."

Cute little red-headed Benji was his nephew? Huh. He must want me to tutor his kid or something. Most of my spending money comes from tutoring, so it's widely known that I offer my services after school. "Do you need a reading tutor or something?" I ask.

He knocks his head back in a loud laugh, and I realize how it must've sounded coming out. "I can read just fine, Ms. Gilbert I just want to talk to you."

I bite my lip contemplating my choices. I could say no, and do what I usually do on a Saturday, which was watch TV and work, or I could say yes, and spend the next hour finding out what Damon wants, because he must need something.

"Fine, but your going to have to take me as I am, because if I go home and change, you'll probably never see me again," I reply.

This man needs to tell me who his dentist is, because he shows me his teeth again, and I swear I see a cartoon sparkle. "You are a very refreshing person, Ms. Gilbert," he says, taking the water bottle out of my hands, and walking towards the self check out.

I chase after him, trying to get to my water. "I can pay for a bottle of water," I yell after him.

"I'm the one who is interrupting your morning. Please, let me take care of this," he says, while scanning and paying for the water.

After thanking him for the water, he tells me that we're walking to a little place called Le Pain around the corner. Walking with Damon out of CVS and down the street was out of my comfort zone, and I curse myself for agreeing to breakfast. I could be in my pajamas with a mug of coffee and watching Netflix, right now.

"So, how long have you been running?" he asks, as we walk side by side along a residential street.

"Pretty much my whole life, but I got out of the habit a couple of years ago. I've only recently gotten back into it," I reply, skipping over a large crack in the sidewalk.

"You have good form, like you've been doing it for a while."

I turn my head to look at him, completely caught off guard. He said it like he wasn't trying to be nice, but sincerely thought so. "It's cheap exercise," I reply simply. "Do you live around here?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"I live all over," he replies.

"What kind of answer is that?" I ask, turning my head to look at him.

"We're here," he says, leading the way down a stone path. There's no sign outside the restaurant, which is so L.A. He opens a wooden white door, and bypassing the front desk, he nods to the hostess and takes me past tables full of people enjoying mimosas on a Saturday morning, and to a room in the back. At first, I think he's taking me to an office and that he's going to offer me a job managing or something, but instead he takes me to a private patio with a single table overlooking a garden full of herbs and wild flowers, and a small three tier running fountain in the middle of the patio.

I sit down at the table covered in a blue and white checked table cloth, with a pot of daisies across from Damon. "This is lovely," I say, commenting on the patio. I shift in my chair. It's almost too much, Mr. Completely Out-of-My League is sitting across from me, actually looking at me like I'm a human being.

"I know the owners," he replies. "Do you want a drink? Champagne? A Bloody Mary?"

I look at the menu in front of me. I automatically want alcohol, but I should probably have my head on straight during the conversation I'm about to have. "Coffee's fine," I pause. Between the environment and the niceties, I have to rip the inevitable off like a bandaid, because the past 25 minutes has been slow torture that will only result in rejection. "Why am I here?" I ask.

He sits back, considering me, and I stare right back at him from under the brim of my cap. Taking his time, which is extremely irritating. "Are you sure you don't want a mimosa or something?"

I ignore him. "I'm not some aloof girl. I know that you need something, so out with it."

Damon gets up to leave, slightly irritated. "I'm going to get your coffee," he says.

Great. He's leaving me alone long enough to realize I acted rudely. I pull my phone out of my back pocket. No text messages, but that's to be expected. I check my email and immediately sigh at the 5 new emails from the parents of students in my class. Sometimes my job sucked. There are parents in existence that think because they are paying for a private education, I should be at their beck and call. If their children are unhappy, I hear about it. They want an extension on a book report because the nanny had the night off and little Johnny didn't want to do it on his own.

It's frustrating, but what can be more frustrating, is knowing that sometimes I have little control over how a child does when they have unsupportive parents. It makes me feel powerless, an emotion I don't like. Which is why I need to get out of here.

I pocket my phone and get up, looking around for an exit.

"Going somewhere?" Damon asks, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee, a small pitcher of cream, and an ornate container with a silver lid and small spoon sticking out of it. I immediately sit down, because the coffee looks really good. He chuckles as he places the mug in front of me.

"I brought coconut milk and the container has vanilla sugar in it," he explains. I grin, because he is speaking my language. Fussy coffee and mixed lattes are nothing short of heaven for me, and one of the few simple pleasures I still will indulge in.

I add some coconut milk and sugar to my coffee, while Damon watches, sipping from his own mug. "I was going to leave," I say.

He shrugs, "Why didn't you?"

I sit back and take my fist sip. It is so completely good, I no longer care what he has to say to me. "Coffee," I state.

"I'll make note of it." He puts a manilla envelope in front of me, that I didn't see when he came in.

I look at it uneasily. "What's this?" It's a job offer. While I taught her son, I became good friends with his sister-in-law. I probably shouldn't have had wine with her and told her I had issues with the administration of the school. So unprofessional, but she caught me on a bad day, and when I drink, I become very chatty.

"I want you to live with me," he says. My mouth practically hits the floor like in a Loony Toon cartoon. Move in with him?

"Are you looking for a live in maid or something?" I ask, pushing the envelope back toward him.

"No, I need someone to live with me," he replies, sliding it back in front of me.

"So, what's this?" I ask, holding up the envelope.

"Information and expectations."

So simple, yet so manipulative. The interference after my run. Politely paying for my water. Always steering the conversation in my direction. Taking me to an angelic courtyard and plying me with heavenly coffee. I spent enough time around my father on the golf course with business associates to know that I was being wooed for something more than what he was telling me.

"So, get a roommate or a girlfriend," I say, taking another sip of coffee.

He looks at me, frustrated. Clearly I was not an easy mark. "I need someone I can trust," he replies, moving his coffee aside and resting his clasped hands on the table, like he's having an internal battle.

"You don't know me at all. You might as well put an ad on Craigslist and do an interview and background check for the applicants. Not only would you get a very willing roomy, but you'd also have a slew of people to choose from."

I could see anger brewing behind those gorgeous blue eyes, as they turn from the deepest blue to a cloudy grey. I glare at him. He may be the most good looking and genetically blessed human being on the planet, but he does not intimidate me. Take away the perfect exterior, and inside you'll find a person struggling to get through life, just like everyone else.

"I can help you," he says through much effort to keep a calm and even voice.

"And what exactly do you think you can help me with?" I ask, but I knew, and I don't think I could bare for him to verbalize it. I had also told his sister that I've been severely unhappy and struggling for the past couple of years. I didn't realize the conversations I'd had while nursing a glass of wine would come back to bite me in the ass.

"I know that you've been struggling with money and you don't like your job," he says carefully. I close my eyes, letting the humiliation wash over me. I was not this person. I was athletic and strong. I'm independent. I ran marathons for Christ's sake, and now I've been reduced to a sad lonely person in severe debt who hates her life. Nope. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

I get up to leave, but he places a very warm hand on mine to stop me. "You misunderstand me. We can help each other," he says, pleading. Then I see it, the human behind the lavish exterior. Soft baby blue eyes in pain. I know that look only too well, and sit down.

He looks at me, expectantly. "I'm listening," I reply.

Knowing that I won't leave, he takes a breath, and continues. "I can offer you an easy job as my assistant. It pays well and you'll have connections to do whatever you want with your life by the time this is over," he says.

The offer is extremely tempting, but I'd be crazy to take it, because I have no clue what I'm giving him in exchange. "I don't have the luxury of escaping at the moment, I have students and a lease," I state. But the rejection seemed to have only fueled him, because with my words, he knew that I was considering it, and now he was about to go in for the kill.

"It's towards the end of the school year, and I happen to donate a lot of money to my nephew's school. With one phone call, I can talk to your head of school and relieve you of the rest of the year," he says.

I couldn't do that to my students, and what about my job? If I don't finish off the rest of the year, my job will surely be up for grabs, and teachers are a dime a dozen in California. Over 500 people applied for my job alone, and I had to bust my ass to get it.

"I can't," I say.

"Let me ask you this, are you happy?" he says, like some missionary proselytizing the message of Christ on the streets.

I gaze around the garden, wanting to look anywhere but at Damon. I wasn't exactly what you would call happy. I didn't really want to be a teacher in the first place. I like it, and enjoy the students, I have my master's degree in it, but I never felt like it was where I should be, which is exactly what I told Beth, Damon's sister-in-law.

The look on my face must've answered his question. "My younger sister, Abby, was a teacher. She stopped teaching when she had her daughter, but is looking for something to do while she's in pre kindergarten," he pauses, making sure he has my attention. When I look back up at him, he continues. "She's willing to substitute and finish the school year. I'll make sure the position is still yours, unless you decide otherwise."

He pre thought this, came up with a solution to every possible reason for me to say no. "What about my lease?"

"You'll have a place to live," he states.

I shake my head. "I live in a tiny rent controlled apartment in a very nice neighborhood. I leave, they'll jack up the rent."

"You won't let me just find you another one?"

I nod, and he purses his lips, thinking. He didn't think I'd fight this. While his guard is down, I decide to ask him once again what's really going on. "Tell me why you need me to live with you so badly."

He leans on the table, hands rubbing his face, claps them, and looks at me. He's trying to read me. I can feel his eyes penetrate my mind. He knows too much about me to not return the favor and give me any information about himself, and he knows that I won't say yes, unless he can give me a good enough reason to.

"My last name is Salvatore," he says.

"I remember," I reply.

"Cut the sass and I'll tell you." I take a sip of the now cold coffee and wave my hand for him to proceed. His lip quirks up slightly, revealing one of his dimples.

"My last name is Salvatore, as in Salvatore International Properties. We own hotel properties and real estate all over the world. I've been running the company since I earned my MBA from Stanford, and after proving myself, my father stepped down to retire, and I took over. A couple of years ago, my father passed away, leaving me with the majority of shares in the company. I um…" he trailed off thinking. I was familiar with Salvatore Investments. They'd been in the news lately because there were rumors they were merging with Hamilton Industries, making it the largest merger in the last decade.

"I got into some trouble," he says.

"What kind of trouble?"

He moves uneasily in his chair and looks down. "Girls, drugs, parties, lavish trips, girls…"

I interrupt, "You already said that." He smiles, trying to make light of something that I think is serious enough to go to a stranger for help.

"I started developing a reputation. Last week, girls came forward saying that I sexually harassed them in the work place."

I look at him. I may have known him for a couple of hours, but he didn't seem like the type that would sexually harass anyone, mainly because he didn't need to. I'm sure he has a slew of girls willing to do anything for him.

"My lawyers and I were able to discount their accusations, but it brought to light something that's in my contract. Something my father put in there to keep me in line. A morality clause. Essentially, if I engage in immoral activities that become public information or am dishonest in a way that would ruin the company's reputation, I forfeit my shares to the board and step down as CEO," he says.

Suddenly it clicked. He needed me to keep him in line, away from multiple girls and away from parties. Every school year, I get at least one student who's out of control, refuses to do homework, classwork, talks out of turn continually, and is blatantly disrespectful. It's my job to whip them into shape so they're ready for the responsibilities waiting for them in fifth grade. Benji was that student, and it took me and Beth boxing him in and forcing him to do his work. Eventually, he became an amazing student and member of the classroom community. Now, Beth wanted me to do the same for her brother. I was The Teacher, and in no way a temptation to him.

I sit back and laugh, which earns me a wary gaze. "You need a professional disciplinarian," I say. Now he laughs, a barking laughter that lights up his eyes, and makes him look boyish.

"Get your head out of the gutter. I'm sexual Kryptonite. I'm no temptation for you, but I have experience making little boys behave," I pause, not believing what I was about to say. All Damon needed was my help, and in return, he'd give me the time and resources to help me figure my life out. I knew myself, and I used teaching as a distraction. I was living in a stressful environment, and getting away from everything would be heavenly.

"Where do you live?" I ask.

He grins, knowing he has me. "We'd be staying part of the time in my beach home in Malibu, and part of it in my penthouse in Century City."

"So what, I follow you around and make sure you don't get into trouble?" I ask. He slides over the envelope, and for the first time since he placed it before me, I actually seriously consider what's in it.

"The information is in there, along with an agreement that I need you to sign," he says.

"Should I get my lawyer? This sounds a lot like a contract."

"I'm not going to lie, you signing it would protect me. I don't assume you'd ever sue me, but you have to understand if anything happened, I could loose the company my father built," he has those pleading eyes again. "Read it. I'll go get you something to eat."

I nod, and he gets up to leave. I take out the papers. It's thick, but I'm a fast reader. He wasn't lying. It was mainly information and expectations. It was more than just keeping an eye on him.

The agreement was more of a non disclosure agreement. I couldn't sue or sell the information I obtained, or tell anyone. Fine by me. This was so weird, and so much more than a roommate situation, I don't know what I'd say.

Damon comes back with two steaming plates. "I had them make you a mushroom, spinach and goat cheese egg white omelet. It's my favorite," he says placing the plate in front of me. It looks delicious.

"What would people call me? If I'm to accompany you to various functions, won't they want to know who I am?"

He reached over and riffled through the papers, pulling out a sheet that I missed because it was stuck to another. I take a bite of the omelet, and read through the paper. I'd be considered his personal assistant, not affiliated with the company and paid with personal funds. I'd get paid, and generously by the looks of it, with benefits. I looked up at him. "You said you needed someone to live with you. This feels more like a job. A very weird job."

He bobs his head up and down as he chews a piece of toast. He rifles through the papers once more, and pulls out another sheet of paper I missed. I look at it, and read the job description. While he already has one at his office in Century City, I am to manage his personal affairs. Take care of his invitations to charity auctions, movie premiers, dinners with influential people, keep track of his comings and goings, and provide him with consistency so he stays clean. It's not like the information is new, but reading it on paper feels very formal and cold.

"I can't," I say, not looking at him as I get up to leave. He doesn't stop me. I pull my cap down and walk out of the restaurant without a glance back.