Myra
The glass doors of the Segretto Star slid open with a whisper, and I was immediately enveloped by a wall of warmth that smelled of expensive pine and aged bourbon. Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of wood and light. The timber beams were old-growth oak, and a massive four-sided stone fireplace dominated the center of the room, crackling with a heat that made the freezing Vermont morning feel like a distant memory.
I smoothed the front of my wool coat, feeling the slight weight of the sample basket on my arm. My boots, though polished, felt clunky on the hand-woven rugs. I forced my chin up, shifting into the persona that had earned me my nickname. I wasn't a backwoods girl from a struggling bakery; I was a consultant delivering a solution to a problem they didn't know they had yet.
