A Crate of Tomatoes 🍅

One

Daisy eyed the security camera planted next to the huge metal gate. Rich people are so obnoxious. She thought as she pressed her knuckle into the doorbell. A speaker flared up immediately.

Speaker: Name and business?

Daisy hesitated. But stood straight and looked at the camera.

Daisy: Daisy Allen. I come with tomatoes.

She mentally facepalmed. "I come with tomatoes?" Seriously?

Speaker: You may enter.

Daisy readjusted the crate of tomatoes in her hands, which now dug into her fingers, and started down the grand cobblestone path into the gardens. "Gardens" as in a lot of hedges and perfectly trimmed trees. There were flowers in pots on occasional patio tables, if that counts. She winced at the trail of mud she was leaving on the shiny path. The order details she had to smooth out had no clue where to drop off the crate, either. She walked aimlessly in a straight line as long as she could, until she stopped in front of the mansion itself. Some extension of it, at least.

An uptight woman in an even tighter bun stepped out of the door to her left.

Assistant Chef: Tomatoes?

Daisy nodded. The woman pointed over her shoulder.

Assistant Chef: Come with me.

Okay. Following some random lady through an industrial-sized food warehouse wasn't in her job description, but Daisy still trailed her through the wide concrete room. She was eventually led to a designated tomato crate area, which was noticeably bearer than the other sections. And that's saying something, considering that what was left in the tomato section could still feed a large village.

Assistant Chef: As you can see, we're running low on tomatoes.

Daisy let out an awkward laugh, but the woman was dead serious.

Daisy: Alright, I'll be going now.

The woman nodded. Daisy nodded back and gave an awkward wave before making a beeline for the door. She shoved it open and fell hard to the ground. Daisy dusted off her arms before looking up through the sun rays. There were two people standing above her. A muscular man, definitely a security of some sort, and Andrew Schuyler.

Andrew Schuyler was all that anyone could ever talk about. He was handsome. He was the richest teenager in the country. He was a model, obviously.

But all Daisy saw was a pretentious boy with a jawline that could cut down a tree. 

Bodyguard: Watch where you're going, kid.

The bodyguard was the one that Daisy had crashed into. He immediately continued on his original path without a second thought to the girl he had just knocked to her feet. Andrew followed behind his head of security reluctantly, but not without throwing back an awkward glance. Then, they turned the corner and were gone.

Daisy, now annoyed, scrambled to her feet and dusted off her jeans. She immediately started for her rusty hand-me-down truck that was parked precariously on the side of the road outside the mansion. The gate let her out without any questions and she hopped in. She punched the radio on and flipped to a country station, not even bothering with her seatbelt. She listened absentmindedly. The whole "farm girl loves country music" was a little cliché, but she didn't care.

Eventually, she pulled up her driveway and jumped out of the car. Her father sat, his brow knit, on the rocking chair on the porch.