AMY STONE WAS SURROUNDED by testosterone. Not everyday, average testosterone but the heavy-duty testosterone that could only belong to athletes. She couldn’t stop staring at the quarterbacks, the baseball stars and other large, muscular guests attending her cousin Riley’s wedding reception. The bride, Sophie Jordan, her sisters and their friends appeared unfazed by so many hot men in one place. As publicists for the Hot Zone, a PR firm specializing in athletes, they were probably used to the sight. As a single woman more accustomed to living and working as a social director at a Fort Lauderdale retirement community owned by her relatives, Amy was out of her element.

But that was about to change. Starting in January, Amy would be working at the Hot Zone, too, and she’d have to learn how to handle herself around these big-shot athletes without melting at their feet. She’d already made a few trips to the city and had begun settling into the apartment Micki Jordan Fuller had leased to her. After spending the holidays with her family, Amy would be leaving her easy life behind.

She’d turned twenty-five on Halloween-there was some irony there, she was sure-and she’d woken up, looked at her life and realized a change was long overdue. She belonged in a crowd of young people, not refereeing irreverent retirees who preferred skinny-dipping to swimming with bathing suits and Long Island iced teas to the nonalcoholic variety. But she was worried about the trouble her mother and her friends could get into left on their own.