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notes in a symphony

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“Is that my shirt?”

Elena glanced down to the hilariously oversized white, paint-splattered shirt she donned. It hung off her small frame. “…no.”

“No?” Mack echoed, the end of his question fading into an amused chuckle. He stepped further into the room, stalking slowly toward her, eyes bright. “You sure? Because it looks like my shirt.”

“And what if it is?”

“Then I’d have to take it off you.”

She set her palette and brush down to slide her surprisingly clean hands around Mack’s waist. Tilting her head back, Elena grinned up at him. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”