I'd given him the choice between the bedroom on either side of mine or the two bedrooms built inside the lighthouse itself. His eyes had lit up like a child's when I'd told him where the other two bedrooms were.

"Can I see them?" he asked. The lighthouse bedrooms were my absolute limit. The staircase wound up from the living room to the first bedroom - the master bedroom - a circular room decorated beautifully to within an inch of its life. Positioned just above that was a smaller double room about half the size of the room below.

I led the way with Tom following close behind me up the narrow twisting stairs to the first room and then I'd pointed the way to the upper bedroom, which I told him was slightly on the smaller side. Both were colder than the bedrooms in the main cottage too because the thermal walls didn't extend up here and I hadn't put the heating on in this part of the house as there'd been no point. These rooms were cool and comfortable in the summer — I'd stayed in the larger room a few years back when we'd come to celebrate Laura's birthday - but like habitable fridges in winter.

I wait in the stairwell for him to reemerge, the condensation misting in front of my face in short white puffs as I dance lightly on the tips of my toes. Finally he clunks down the stairs and gives me a wide eyed look.

"You want to go up there now don't you?" I nod.

"Just for a look, bet the view's fucking incredible." He tilts his head right back and peers upwards. It exposes his throat, roughly covered in a thick brown beard encasing a solid looking adams apple. The sight of it makes my mouth water and my tongue itch.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the small chunk of keys which opens the door to the lighthouse bedrooms and the viewing platform at the top.

Knock yourself out." I hand out the key to him. "I mean not literally because I'm not coming up there to get you no matter what."

He smirks. "You're fucking terrified of heights aren't you?"

I ignore him.  "Decided on your bedroom yet?" I ask instead.

He nods. "Yeah. Nice rooms but I'll sleep next to you," he says before a small (sexy) laugh breaks out of his mouth. "In the bedroom next to yours I meant. Fuck sake Tom," he shakes his head. He doesn't meet my eye when he steps forward to take the key from me but when his hand touches mine a ripple moves through me, out from the spot where his warm fingers meet mine. When he does lift his eyes to mine a strange look moves through them. I feel my bones soften.

Is this how he always looks at women? Does he just go about giving them this kind of heavy hot stare like it's even remotely fair? How on earth do they keep themselves upright? "Sure you don't want to come?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows playfully. I have to take a deep breath of stability before I can even think of some appropriate words to respond to that with.

"I can't think of a single thing that would convince me to go up there with you," I lie. "You enjoy yourself now," I say as I turn my back on him and begin descending the stairs. "You might want to come down for your jacket though." I throw up at him.

"Nah, I need the practice," he throws back.

I shake my head - finding far too much comfort in the idea of nursing him back to health from hypothermia should he catch it on the platform.

In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of red wine and inspect the contents of the oven, namely the Cumberland pie he'd actually helped me prepare earlier. He'd peeled potatoes with a set of swift, talented fingers and sliced them up expertly fine. So he was domesticated. Who knew? I suppose he was lots of things people had no idea about. I wonder what other things. Crossword genius? Trainspotter?

A short while later I'm at the sink when I sense the weight of a heavy stare on my back. When I turn I find him watching me from the doorway.    

"Fucking hell there really is nothing like the sight of a woman in the kitchen," he sighs. I roll my eyes and shake my head.

"So Tom Hardy's a chauvinist pig. How bloody heartbreaking," I say and he grins widely.

He chuckles. "Smells good."

"Doesn't it?"  I concur. "How was the summit?" I tilt my head upwards.

"Fucking freezing. Storm looks pretty serious from up there," he says. His poor balls.

"Um yeah, they said that on the news earlier. Wine?"

He eyes the bottle I'm holding up, swallows and runs a hand over his mouth. "I don't tend to drink much. Haven't for years."

Fuck. I'm such a bloody idiot. I knew that. Of course I knew that. I'd thought once that he was almost perfect if only he wasn't a tea-totaller. "Ahh, ok. No worries."

"I have a glass or two at Christmas though," he says softly.

"Well... it is very close to Christmas." I feel guilty trying to tempt him, but the idea of sharing a bottle of wine over dinner with him is a special one.

"Yeah ok. Just a small one, go on then," he says coming fully into the kitchen. His nose, cheeks, and the tips of his ears are pink with the touch of winter. A blush coloured denouement of his trip to the top of the lighthouse.  It makes his eyes sparkle more than normal. Retrieving another glass from the cupboard, I fill it just under half way and slide it across the counter to him. He lifts it, sniffs the glass and then sips surprisingly delicately. He licks his tongue across the dark red stain it leaves on his lips before nodding.  "It's good."

"It is actually," I agree, "I'm surprised because it was all they had down at the little shop. Think Drew might be a young sommelier in the making..." I lift the bottle to have a closer look. It's a Malbec. A soft, smooth fruity red which coats the tongue and stains the lips and tastebuds.

"Drew?"

"Oh the guy at the wee ye olde garage come shoppe, bless him. He was nice."

Tom lifts his eyebrows playfully, lascivious intent etched across the arch. "Ahhh. Your type was he?"

"Well, it's been a while. Beggars can't be choosers," I reply. Christ did I actually just say that? To Tom Hardy? What the fuck is wrong with me? Is it a disease I can be cured of? "I just meant, fuck," I turn away from him and focus back on the colander of green beans being cleansed under the tap. "I've no idea what I mean. Ignore me."

"What happened?" he asks after a moment. When I turn around he's leaning back against the worktop, wine glass resting against the ridge of his hard stomach, his eyes alert with interest. There's a softness to them, a genuine kindness there in the depths of sparkling green. "With your boyfriend. You said earlier..." He trails off, waving his glass in front of him.

"Oh god you don't want to know. I turn into a high-pitched harpy whenever I talk about him. It's really uncomfortable for everyone in a two mile radius. Best leave that one alone," I warn.

He smiles softly. "If you're sure. You don't want to get a guy's perspective on it?" He suggests. Suddenly I do want to tell him about it. I want to tell him everything. Everything about myself. I want him to know me. Except, if I told him about what happened with him then it wouldn't be him getting to know me. What happened with Chris and Jo wasn't about me, it was about them. It had taken me a while to realise that, and to get there, but it was true.

"I'm not sure it would make me feel any better getting a guys perspective on it. But thanks anyway." I tip the green beans into the steamer and set the pot on to a low boil. "This wont be long if you want to go next door and stick the TV on or something?" I suggest. He hesitates a moment, but then nods and lifts his glass before disappearing into the living room.

When the pie is on the table, I lift the bottle of Malbec and set it between both our places before going through to get him. The log burner is on to a soft kindling flame that gives more heat to the room than you'd think possible. The air is fragrant and warm and settles over me like a blanket. The TV is on low and showing an old musical I remember from my childhood but forget the name of. Faded colours and sickly sweet singing that gives me a rush of nostalgia.

In the large circular room the largest of the three sofas is backed against the wall behind the door and so I have to come right into the room to see its occupant. I literally have to stifle a swoon at the sight of him. He's on his side facing into the room, hands under his head like a pillow and he's fast asleep. Even from here I see his eyelashes thick and heavy on his flushed cheeks. The shirt he was wearing earlier has been discarded over the back of the sofa and the thick tattooed arms peek out under the soft linen of his white T-shirt.

My stomach and heart lurches at the sight of him. Then my thighs tremble with a tight neediness that makes my cheeks feel hotter. He is an exceptionally attractive man. This was something I already knew. But seeing him here, the weight of sleep settled over his muscular body, curled up in a childlike pose — he looks like something else entirely. Otherworldly.

My next thought is: Do I wake him? Dinner will get cold pretty quickly and I doubt he'll want reheated Cumberland pie. His wine glass is on the floor next to the couch and still relatively untouched as I approach on a slight tiptoe. Up close his breathing is quiet and even, his thick looking chest moving up and down in a soft graceful rise and fall. Forrest lifts his head up from the rug by the fire and watches me curiously.

Shooting him an uncertain look I reach out towards Tom's arm slowly before retracting my hand almost immediately. No. I can't wake him. I can't. He's clearly exhausted. He looked exhausted. He can eat when he wakes up. Rather that than wake him from a much needed and deserved nap.

As I take a step back my foot nudges the glass and it topples over, loudly. Then as I turn I somehow manage to kick it a few feet across the hard wood floor where it shatters loudly against the corner of the black stone hearth. Forrest stands and bolts like lightning from his position by the fire as I gasp loudly.

"Fuck," I hiss quieter.

"I shouldn't have left it there, sorry," his voice says from behind me, thick and groggy with sleep. When I turn round he's sitting up, rubbing sleep from his half shut eyes, his hair sticking up haphazardly. He offers me an apologetic look and stands up from the sofa. "I'll clean it up," he offers.

"God no, don't be silly, it was my fault." I shake my head as he goes to get up. "You don't have socks on, stay over there. I'll get the shovel," I tell him. He ignores me and stands up. Then he gets down on his hands and knees and crawls towards the little pool of red wine and shattered glass by the fireplace. "Tom."

"Yeah I know, I'm just standing guard incase he comes back and walks over it," he says indicating the direction Forrest went.

Oh. Well, that's very thoughtful.

Returning with the small brush and shovel from the hall cupboard, I kneel down next to him and start picking up the largest shards of glass. Despite my protestations, he helps me, his large strong looking hands picking up varying sizes large of glass carefully before dropping them onto the shovel. He's so close to me that I can smell him. He smells of sleep and warmth underpinned with a distinct masculine sweetness that makes me feel a little dizzy. I'd missed that smell. Masculinity. Maleness. Chris always smelled so good. Even Chris's sweat smelled good. I'm certain Tom's would too.

I miss him then, in this moment as I stare at a man a thousand miles out of my league I wish I was a woman in a relationship and not one desperate for the touch of a man I can't ever have.

To make it worse he's even better looking up close. Older than Chris by almost eight years, his skin glows with a vitality I don't think I've ever seen on a younger man. His mouth, that famously full mouth, looks even more tempting and luscious at such close proximity. To my eternal and everlasting mortification he glances up suddenly and catches me staring at him. The heat from the log burner a few feet away does nothing to help the hot flush of embarrassment that washes over me. My mouth feels bone dry and my feels tummy tight with a need I haven't felt in months. I drop my eyes immediately to where our hands are close to one another as my heart hammers in my chest, a fierce tattoo that I'm sure he can hear from there.

I'll just get the rest with this," I say breathlessly as I wrap the kitchen roll around my hand to flatten it over the small crunchy mound of glass and Malbec. He keeps his eyes on me as I finish, and I feel those eyes on every single nerve of my body. Does he know how his stare makes people feel? People like me? "That'll do," I announce standing up from the floor. He pulls himself to his feet and gives me an apologetic look.

"Sorry again for leaving it there," he says quietly.

I shake my head. "It was totally my fault. I was hovering - trying to decide whether to wake you or not." I was absolutely not swooning over how good you look when you're sleeping. I glance away from his eyes. "Anyway, dinner's ready — if you're hungry that is."

"Oh fucking hell yeah, I'm hungry," he nods. "I'm always fucking starving after a nap. Like a baby." He gives me an adorable grin and follows me through to the kitchen.

As I enter with Tom close at my back the sight in front of me makes me stop dead in my tracks.  It also makes me want to scream and then curl up into a foetal position and cry.

Forrest is on top of the dining table face deep in the dish of steaming Cumberland pie.