"Okay, so I really don't want to leave you out here. You could come back with me.  Until the snow stops at least, and then we can figure out what to do with you from there?" I suggest.

A crease appears between his eyebrows.  Amusement perhaps. Surprise too. "You'd do that?"

"I don't imagine you're about to murder me.  The chances of me meeting Tom Hardy in the middle of nowhere were pretty slim already, so I think the chances of Tom Hardy turning out to be a murderer are only slightly less probable." I chance a smile.  I'm not sure how he's likely to react to my calling him out on his identity quite honestly.  Thankfully he just smiles back, a warm full smile that heats me up where I sit. 

"Yeah, only slightly," he grins.   "Honestly Frankie, I'd bloody owe you one."

"Oooh like film premier tickets or a walk on part in your next film?" I beam eagerly. 

"Unlock the fucking door and we can talk about it,"  He retorts. 

"Of course, Right!" I nod, turning to flick the switch to unlock the passenger door.  "Ok, there you go — unlocked! Oh you might want to put that in the boot though, not a lot of space in here for it," I say gesturing to the large fluorescent green rucksack he's just dropped from his shoulders. He nods and walks to the rear of the car.   I'm about to shout instructions on how to open the boot, because everyone struggles with it, but it pops open immediately and I feel the car sag slightly with the weight of his bag as he dumps it in.  He closes it with a thud and then he's climbing in beside me.

"Wait.  You're definitely not a psycho killer are you?"  I  ask, throwing him a look of faux concern.  "Be honest."

He closes the passenger door and yanks his fur trimmed deer stalker off his head and ruffles a hand through his scruffy brown hair.  It's longer than it was in the last pictures.  I always like it when it's longer.  "Honestly, the only thing being killed out here is my fucking ability to bear any more children.  My fucking balls are freezing off,"  He groans, blowing into his gloves. "Shit. Sorry about the language," he says sheepishly.    

With a smile, I turn the dial of the heater pressure up a notch and spin the other so it's blasting in his direction.  After he's done blowing into his gloved hands he begins rubbing them together furiously before smacking them loudly off the tops of his thighs.  He stops suddenly and turns to me and gives me a sort of expectant look.  Wide-eyed and raised eyebrows. 

"Want me to drive her?" he asks.

"What?  Um no, no it's good." I nod.  "I'm good."

"Good," he nods, smirking a little.

I get edgy when men I find attractive watch me drive.  It's like when they watch me eat.  Or when they watch me do anything really.  But this was Tom Hardy.  Tom bloody Hardy was watching me drive my VW Beetle through the snow, and he was tense about it, I could tell. 

"You can turn the radio on if you want," I tell him.  "They only have two stations available up here though.  And they've been playing the same four songs all week.  Oh and Adele."

"Which one?  Of Adele's" he clarifies as he pulls off his glove and begins fiddling with the small black dial.  I hated people messing about with my radio presets.  Normally.  I'd let him mess about with anything of mine though. 

"Um, Rolling in the deep."

"Good one that."

"You like Adele?" I ask, turning my head to look at him. 

He shrugs. "Yeah, who doesn't?"  Before I can respond the sound bursts into the car.  It's not Rolling in the Deep, it's Bieber. "What was the other station playing?" He asks.

"What?  Oh, it was a talk station.  They were reading out Love poems' Byron and Burns mainly. Happy Valentines Day." I tell him.

He smiles.  "Yeah okay, we'll leave it here then.." he says adjusting the volume down a touch before settling back in his seat.   The fact that Tom Hardy is in my car listening to Justin Bieber with me hits me then, like a smack in the face from an open hand.

"So what are you doing out here?"  I ask.  "This is literally the last place on earth I'd have expected to find you."

"Why, were you looking for me?"  he asks.  When I look at him his mouth is curled up into a mischievous smile. It causes my stomach to do a triple back flip with forward somersault.    My cheeks flame as I smile back at him before turning my eyes back to the road.  

"I just mean why aren't you in LA in the sunshine or in the Caribbean somewhere?  The world must be your oyster.  Why the Outer Hebrides in February?  Do you have a death wish?"

He chuckles softly and from the side of my eye I see him nod, before smoothing a hand over his rugged facial hair.  "I didn't want to be too far from home - I need to get back to my little boy at the end of the week.  But I needed to be far enough away for it to feel right."

His little boy was called Louis.  I knew this because I'd been a fan of his for years, and it was perfectly normal to find out these kinds of things about people you admired.  Wasn't it?  I decide not to tell him that I know this information though just in case. Incase he asks me to stop the car because he'd rather freeze to death than come back to the lighthouse with me. Incase he thinks this piece of information makes me the psycho killer in this scenario. 

"For what to feel right?"  I ask instead.

"Deprivation.  The fight with the elements.  The need to survive," He says sounding very serious.  "I lasted four fucking days." he laughs.  "Rather have my fucking balls than an Oscar nomination, you know.  They're far more useful."  

"They are?  God I had no idea," I feign surprise.   "I hear Oscars make really great doorstops though."

"Yeah?  Who told you that?"

"Tom Hanks.  Picked him up here last year. He managed a full week." I say and laughs again.

He chatters with ease for the rest of the way back to The Lighthouse, about his journey up here; he'd flown up to inverness, then hired a car and drove to Skye, where he'd parked it up and took the ferry on foot.  He was only recognised twice apparently.  By an American family in a pub in Portree, and the girl at the ticket office at Uig — "a big Chris Pine fan" he grumbles.  

When we turn into the slight incline of the road to the lighthouse I hold my breath and reduce the gear and hope that my beetle makes it all the way up.  She'd never let me down yet and she'd driven remarkably well in the snow since I got her.  But I'd never tried her on an unpaved road covered in four inches of snow with Tom Hardy in her.  I wouldn't blame her if she got stage fright frankly. 

She struggles a little near the top, but Tom whispers some words of encouragement in that low grizzly voice, pats the dash softly a few times and she jerks up and over the peak of it and coasts the rest of the way to the small gravelled driveway outside the front door of the cottage section of the lighthouse.  He gets out first and walks straight to the boot to retrieve his toddler-shaped rucksack, before moving to lift the two shopping bags Drew had kindly put in there for me.

"Um, if you could just get this one for me that'd be great, I'll get the others," I point to the lightest one. "Just so I can unlock the door, thanks."  I close the boot with my elbow and lock the car and he follows close behind me to the front door.  The wall of wind and snow pushes against my back and my hood blows down low obscuring my eyes and so I have to look down at my feet to see where I'm going.  I still haven't gotten used to the keys yet and the nerves seem to be back, most likely as I'm about to invite him into what is for all intents and purposes my home.  The keys slip from my nervy icy hands onto the snow covered step. "Fuck," I curse quietly bending down to fish them out of the little mound of white powder. 

"You alright there," I hear him ask.

"Fine yes, fine..." finally I find the right key and turn the silver knob clockwise.  Whilst still trying to hold onto the bag of wine, I nudge the heavy storm door open with my shoulder and step inside.  The little vestibule is dark but the porch light is motion sensitive and pops on immediately helping me find the right key first time.

I unlock the inner door and push it open wide and the wave of heat and warmth hits me instantly, along with the faint scent of mulled wine and cinnamon from the candle I'd burned earlier.  Tom comes into the hall behind me and closes the door before turning to me inquisitively.

"Will I take my boots off?" he asks, eyeing the polished wood of the floor at his feet and the immaculate striped runner. 

"Uh, yes, if you like," I shrug.  Laura's holiday house was a beautiful polished haven of style but I don't imagine she'd mind if I told her the muck on the hall carpet was from Tom Hardy's boot. I wonder then what his house is like.  Whether he's tidy or messy.  I always imagined him to be slightly messy for some reason, but this desire not to make a mess has given me second thoughts. 

Somewhat grudgingly, I rest the shopping bag on the floor and bend down to unlace the laces of my own snow boots. stepping out of them and sliding them back against the wall.  Then I lift the bag and carry it through to the kitchen and leave him to it.  He could be quite sometime given the number of layers he's rocking.  

In the kitchen I shrug out of my padded jacket and hang it on the hook by the back door and cross to the utility room to where the skittish sounds of nails on linoleum are waiting for me.  "I'm back baby, mummy's back."  I coo as I open the door.  He comes bounding out, tail wagging rambunctiously as he butts his head against my thighs, his tongue falling out of his mouth in excited welcome.  "Did you miss me?" I ask as I rub a hand over his warm head, stroking my fingers softly down his rich auburn fur.  He licks at my hand a few times, panting hard against my palm before his head lifts, nose rising to action  before he bolts from the kitchen.   The sound of his nails skate behind him across the wooden floors. 

"Alright gorgeous," I hear Tom exclaim in delight from the hallway.  "Look at you — fucking hell you're beautiful aren't you?  Come here and lets see you, thats it,"  he practically purrs, his deep scratchy tone thick with delight and warmth.  It makes me smile as I cross the kitchen to flick on the kettle.  He really does love dogs.

He enters the kitchen a moment later, dog close by his heel, and casts a curious glance around the large open space kitchen "Can I get you some tea or coffee to heat you up?" I ask.  "You must be freezing?"

"I'm warming up pretty nicely actually," he smiles, running a hand over my excitable red setter.    "Who's this then?" he asks, dropping his eyes.

"He's Forrest," I say without thinking.  Tom's head whips around to me, eyes wide with surprise. "Um because he runs.. really fast.  My boyfriend named him," I lie.  Can he tell I'm lying?  My cheeks go bright red whenever I lie but he doesn't know that. 

"Your boyfriend here?" he asks then, looking about and back out down the hall. 

"Christ I hope not. He's my ex-boyfriend now," I explain. Tom nods, smiles a little awkwardly, but then relaxes again.  He's still stroking Forrest but his eyes are on me and not the dog.   I take a moment to drink him in.

He's actually more gorgeous in real life than I thought possible.  I mean I suspected he would be gorgeous. But really, he's ridiculous.  He'd bulked up slightly from the last pap pics I'd seen of him, his shoulders wide and strong-looking, his arms thick and pronounced through the white V-necked T-shirt.  On top of that he's wearing a checked red and black shirt which is open and loosely rolled up at the sleeves, and he'd removed dark waterproof trousers to reveal baggy blue jeans. They hang loose on his hips with the help of a sturdy black leather belt which looks like it's seen better days.  There's an antique-looking metal buckle affixed to the front with some design on it that I cant make out from here. 

When I realise he's watching me salivate over him I drop my eyes quickly and swallow hard.  My mouth feels dangerously dry.  I need water, or wine.  Yes a wine would be better.  He'll think I'm an alcoholic if I open a bottle of wine at — I glance at the clock above the door — 3pm. 

"I'll have coffee please," he says softly.  "Black, no sugar.  Thanks,"  He offers me a diminutive smile which lifts just the left-hand side of his full mouth.    

"No bother," I nod.  "There's a list of the hotels on the island in that book there.  Most are on the northern half though — there are more campsites than anything else, but I really don't like the idea of you out there in that," I signal the wailing snow outside.  "Barbara looks like she's going to be a right bitch."

"You don't like the idea of me out in that?" he sounds faintly amused.  "I'm a big boy Frankie, I can handle it." 

Oh I like how he says my name like that.
Placing the cups down on the counter I turn to him.  "Hmm, that why you begged me for a lift?"

"I didn't beg you," he smirks.  "I asked you.  Nicely." 

"You were nice.  But you still asked. She was giving you a hard time, just admit it."  I raise an eyebrow. 

"I can handle Barbara," he says his eyes glittering with unshed laughter.  He pulls out the end of the long wooden bench and sits down.  Forrest still looks hypnotised by him.  Which I don't blame him for. 

"If you say so,"  I giggle. 

He's silent while I make the coffee but I'm certain I can feel him looking at me.  It's unnerving.  He must be used to beautiful waif-like women fawning over him, batting overly coiffed eyelashes at him, flaunting bodies worth a million dollars at him as they make him coffee.  He probably isn't used to underdone pale Scottish women who make coffee that's too strong and terrible jokes during uncomfortable silences.  When I cross the kitchen to give him his mug he's leaning on his elbows on the table with his head resting in his hands.  He looks exhausted. Weatherbeaten and gorgeous but exhausted.

"It's probably too strong," I tell him apologetically. I set the mug down next to him and then take a perch on the end of the bench.  He makes a small sound of indifference and twists the handle round and lifts the steaming mug to his mouth and blows. 

"It's perfect actually," he says after he takes a sip, letting out a contented sigh.  "Christ that feels good. Warmth."

"Where did you sleep last night?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.  He clearly hadn't slept very well. He looks so tired but the circles under his eyes do nothing to dampen his good looks, his hair mussed and haphazard over the crown of his head only makes him look more rugged.  "You didn't camp, surely?" It was -2 last night.  I really hope he didn't camp. 

"A hostel just by Liverton, about 20 miles back the way I came. Should have just stayed there," he admits. 

"So what are you doing?  Researching a role?  Or have you gone mad?  Shia LaBeouf style?" I widen my eyes playfully. 

He almost smiles. "Shia's a good guy, mental as kettle of crabs but a good guy," he tells me. I laugh quietly. The expression isn't one I've ever heard. Also because the image of a kettle of crabs is amusing.  A moment later I fold my lips inward to cut my laugh short.  He looks genuine about Shia being a good guy.  Okay did I really just refer to Shia LaBeouf as 'Shia' in my head? Like I know him.  "Fuck please don't repeat that," he gives me a look of mild concern. 

"Oh Sorry, too late.  I'm phoning the daily mail as soon as you leave," I nod. 

"Fuck. At least phone somewhere better than that steaming bucket of piss? You're classier than that come on?" He gives me a lopsided brow raise.  Inside I'm brimming with joy that he thinks I'm classy.  

"So you haven't gone mad, meaning you're fighting with the elements to prepare for a role?" I ask again. He nods, slurping his coffee more loudly than I'd probably accept from any other human.  Tom Hardy was the exception to most of my rules. 

"Yeah. I leave for Alberta next Wednesday.  We're shooting out there for five months and I've spent the last two months in LA.  I thought I should try and acclimatise myself a bit.  So I don't look like a total fucking pussy when I get out there you know?"

"I get it.  Moaning about the cold would certainly destroy the hard man image you've worked so hard to cultivate," I smile knowingly.  He laughs, holding my eyes a little longer than I'm sure is safe and practical for my breathing and heartrate.  His eyes are far more intense than I expected.  Well, the feeling of them on me is more intense than I expected. Not that I ever expected to have them on me.  I look down away from them. 

"I should make a few calls, see if anyone can find me a room with a roof," he says.  He reaches into the left pocket of his jeans and retrieves a black cubed weapon of a phone.  It's the size of my hand.  A gun metal grey weapon-like contraption built for space I can only imagine. 

"Sure," I say, standing up from the table.  "I should let him outside for a bit anyway," I gesture to Forrest who's backside is flat on the floor as he gazes up through chocolate coloured eyes in adoration at our visitor.  Despite his clear obsession with Tom, when I click my fingers he jumps up and comes running, skidding to my side in a jumble of excited limbs towards the front door. 

Outside with my coat pulled on and my boots on but not laced, Forrest runs in ever widening circles, occasionally diving headfirst into the snow which had lain last night. He dives in great leaps of red fur which leaves his tail standing upright, bright against powdery alabaster snow. He prances back to me and I throw the bright green ball as far as my strength will allow watching with a smile as it sinks into the snow and he dives head first in after it.  Is he really in my house?  Well Laura's lighthouse technically but still.  How insane the notion is to my brain.  How utterly otherworldly and unreal.  What a story to tell the girls when I get home.

Forrest bounds around the side of the house and across the wide expanse of white covering the land on which the lighthouse sits.  I gaze up at the imposing structure that was almost entirely redundant now.  Seen for miles, the eggshell clad monolith dominates the relatively flat landscape of the isle it inhabited.  Harris was a vast haunting but stunning place, made only marginally more beautiful by the bright white blanket covering its surface now.  The sun continues to fall but the chill gradually begins to seep back into my bones, making them feel brittle and taught.  I need to go back inside soon.  How cold must have he have been wandering that road for twenty miles? Hardy by name... I smile to myself.

"He's a beautiful dog,"  His voice says from behind me, startling me somewhat.  When I turn he's standing on the doorstep of the cottage admiring the sight of Forrest behind me. 

"He is," I nod.  "Did you make your calls?"

He turns his stare on me fully then.  "Yeah, everything's closed.  I called the Hostel and they still have my bed so I'll hike back up there.  Shouldn't take me too long,"  He sounds remarkably calm about the idea.

"Tonight??" I ask, incredulous. 

He nods and glances in the direction of Liverton. "Yeah, it's a straight road."

"Tom, it's already getting dark," I point out.  The sky was weighty with snow and the imminent freeze was heavy and threatening around us.  "I can't let you walk out in this."

"I told you, I'm a big boy Frankie," he says. 

I shiver at his use of my name again in that same familiar way.  As though he's known me years.  The way he says it makes it sound like nothing I've ever heard before, or will hear again I don't think. 

"Hmm, yes, you had mentioned that." 

He smiles, holds my eyes before turning his stare back to the dog.  "How old is he?" 

I turn to look at Forrest.  He's stopped running, ears pulled back in alert curiosity, as though he knows we're talking about him. "He's four, or thereabouts. He was a rescue pup when we got him."

Tom nods.  "I've never had a setter.  They're hard work I hear."

"Aren't they all?"

"Yeah," he nods.  "Good point."  He considers something and he lets out a small breathy laugh.  "Forrest..." He muses, a whisper of a smile on his face.  I cringe.

"Stay here," I blurt. 

His eyes flick to me and widen a little. "What?"

"You're welcome to stay here.  It's a big place.  And it's just me and him.  You can stay as long as you need to."

He says nothing in response and the hot creep of embarrassment starts to move up from my throat to my cheeks at the idea of his refusal.

"Why would you do that?" he asks with a narrowed but warm stare.

"I'm just a wonderful kind-hearted person, I suppose."

He smiles. It's crooked and perfect.     "I don't doubt it Frankie, I don't fucking doubt it."  The shiver as it moves over me this time is a lot easier to handle.  He really is delectably handsome.  His face had a slight roughness to it that photos don't really portray.  His skin is a coarse tanned flesh that has seen life and hardship but come through it strengthened and better for it.  His eyes have the same strong quality.  Wise.  Like an owl.  He's older than me and as he stares hard at me I feel those years shift and unravel between us.  I feel like a young foolish girl when he stares at me like he's doing now. 

"So you'll stay then?  You said you leave on Sunday?  I can drive you down to the dock." I tell him.  His lips flatten over that enticingly crooked row of front teeth before he smiles again. 

"Ok. I'll stay.  Will you show me the top of the lighthouse?" he asks, looking up at it.  I follow his eyes up to the monstrosity, balking slightly as I see it move in the wind. 

"Not a snowballs chance in hell." I shake my head.   "But I'll give you the key and you can go up on your own.  I'll watch you from the bottom as I drink wine in my slippers." 

He chuckles softly and nods.  Just then Forrest lops towards us, kicking up white powdered snow in his wake.  He circles my legs and then runs towards where Tom is leaning on the doorframe.  He sticks his backside up in the air and bends his front paws and head down.  He looks like he's bowing.  Tom takes a long look at him and gets down on his haunches and ruffles the fur between his ears. 

"What about you buddy?  You don't mind me crashing for a few days do you?"  he asks the dog before casting a wary eye up at the sky.   Forrest says nothing, but raises himself up to full height and turns himself around a few times on the spot, his tail wagging in joyous exultation.   "Don't want to steal your mum's attention away you know?" he adds with a soft chuckle.  When he lifts his eyes to me the shiver strokes itself down the line of my spine, tightens around my tummy before settling between my thighs. 

"He's not really the jealous type," I say as I walk back to the front door.  Tom straightens up and meets my eye, the side of his mouth turning down into a frown. 

"Really?  Cause if you were mine I definitely wouldn't want to share you with some random fucking guy, but that's just me,"  he shrugs.  He says it so casually, in such a completely conversational way - like the way he'd tell you he didn't like sugar on his porridge - that I can do nothing but stare blankly at him.  "But that said, I'd love to stay for a few days if the two of you will have me." He says with that now familiar twinkle in his eye.

If I'll have him? Jesus christ. I'd have him every day for breakfast lunch and dinner for the rest of my bloody life if he'd let me.  As the blush hits my cheeks I swallow and try and bite back the smile breaking out of my mouth.  "Well, I'm sure you hear this all the time, but we'll have you Tom."