Tony
The air in the cab of my truck smelled like the best version of my life: toasted flour, honey, and the faint, sweet scent of Myra’s perfume.
The drop-off at Segretto Star had gone smoother than a glazed donut. We were unloading the final crates from the truck bed, the heavy wooden boxes of muffins and coffee cakes, when the morning sun hit the patio. A group of guests—the kind of people who looked like they’d never seen a 4:00 AM alarm in their lives—actually paused their conversations as we walked by.
“Excuse me,” a woman in an elegant silk wrap called out, holding a scone like it was a piece of jewelry. “This is incredible. It tastes... I don’t know, like something my grandmother used to make. It’s been years since I’ve had anything this authentic.”
I caught Myra’s profile. She
