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“I wasn’t born Harold,” he said, in between kisses.
“Oh?” As if that would change anything.
“That came later. After the doctors — after they’d realized. Took a few years before it all got straightened out.”
A hand ghosted along his side, brushing the bare skin, making Harold shiver delightedly. “Bet they’re not used to that kind of thing, in a small town.”
“Oh, certainly not. And my parents had to change all the colors in my room, my clothes—”
“Typical.” A huff. “So, I’m guessing it wasn’t Harriet—”
Harold twined his arms around Donnelly’s neck and kissed him again. “April.”