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outdone, Marsh grabbed the old-fashioned metal pole that supported the building’s overhang with both hands and swung around so his body was perpendicular to the pole, creating a pencil-straight line blocking her path.
    The cheers pleased her. The guys were on their game and things were only going to get better, she hoped.
    Marsh swung around and let go of the pole to reach for her bag. “Gimme that. I bet there’s money in there.”
    Her character wasn’t the weep-and-cry kind of girl. She’d put up a fight even if the odds were against her.
    “Messing with the mail is a federal offense,” she said, speaking loudly so her voice would carry to the onlookers.
    “Oh, yeah? Who cares about Uncle Sam? We want what’s in that bag, ho,” Eerik snarled.
    The script had called for Zane to rush to her rescue the moment Marsh picked her up and twirl her overhead like a sack of potatoes.
    Marsh reached for her, but before he had them both in position, she heard a voice cry, “Leave her alone.”
    The wrong voice. What the hell? Jessie spun around to see J.T. approach. J.T.? She nearly groaned out loud. “What are you doing here?” she asked—the right line but with a different meaning than originally intended.
    “I’m here to help. Because, no matter what you do or say, I love you. And I know you love me. And need me.”
    Jessie was honestly and completely speechless. Either his acting had improved or he really meant what he was saying. Yes, Dar had told her as recently as a week ago that J.T. was still mooning over Jessie, but even Dar admitted the two were completely incompatible. J.T. was a control freak. A micromanager. Jessie was as independent as they came.
    She looked over her shoulder toward where she hoped Remy was filming. Her sister wasn’t there. She didn’t know what to do—yell “Cut” or try to fake it.
    “I…” She looked at her two colleagues, pleadingly.
    Marsh made the call. He grabbed the front of J.T.’s shirt and gave him a shake. “Ain’t that sweet. Her hero decided to show up. Let’s show him what we do to heroes.”
    The script called for a fight scene—an artfully choreographed kind of battle where no true contact was made. Jessie doubted J.T. knew how to avoid walking into a punch. She decided to jump ahead in the program.
    “Leave him alone, you bums,” Jessie shouted. “Did I forget to mention I have a black belt in karate?”
    She assumed a fighting stance. Eerik understood to keep a visibly squirming J.T. restrained while Jessie did her thing. Her skirmish with Marsh was like a dance—feign, dip, twirl, kick, duck, roll, rebound.
    The crowd cheered for her and booed every time Marsh knocked her down. On cue, Eerik released J.T., faking a loud “umph” as if J.T. had elbowed him in the gut.
    J.T. stumbled in his haste to reach Jessie, but when he did, he grabbed her arm and pointed toward Yota—the only car parked on the street. Its boxy shape and overall height was perfect for launching yourself into the air for a couple of backflips or twists.
    “Run,” J.T. cried, pulling her arm the same moment she pitched her mailbag through the open door of the post office. Although she could appreciate his enthusiasm and lack of experience or training, the force of his tugging wrenched her off balance. She would have fallen flat on her face if he hadn’t been there to catch her. Once she regained her balance, she had to stifle the urge to send him to the ground in pain with a swift kick to the groin.
    The script called for her anonymous hero to lead them on a circuitous route up and over Yota, vaulting across strategically placed planter boxes and making use of light poles in an attempt to lose the bad guys. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that the only way J.T. could keep up with her was by not doing any of the stunts. That was fine with Jessie. This was supposed to look serious, not comedic.
    “Wait here,” she cried, pushing him into the doorway of the abandoned