Page 15 of What Would Dolly Do?

I was used to waking late on a Sunday morning feeling pretty knackered. For the last few years Saturday nights had usually meant playing a show and then driving back through the night from whatever pub, club or party venue we had plied our Dolly everything and everyone else had melted away until Tom had to give the cab driver directions, but he soon focused his attention right back to me.

I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about what the driver might think about our backseat antics.

He was nothing to me, and in that moment Tom was everything.

His eyes ate me up and I had to stifle a moan as he muttered, ‘Rebecca … what are ya doin’ to me? ’

The fact I was having such an effect on him blew my mind. Why men ever think ‘playing it cool’ is a turn-on is a mystery to me. Seeing Tom so clearly aroused in the back of that cab sent me completely weak at the knees.

I rolled onto my side now and extended a leg with my eyes still closed.

My toes found another leg, warm, solid, hairy.

It felt like the sexiest leg I had ever known.

I let my eyes flutter open and there he was.

It wasn’t a dream. Tom lay on his back with his face turned towards me, one arm flung behind his head and his blue eyes looking directly into mine.

His red hair was messed up, he had the beginnings of stubble on his chin and an expression on his face that gave me hope he was planning to ravish me all over again.

I had never seen anything so damn sexy in all my life.

‘What a glorious mornin’,’ he said in a throaty chuckle while in one move rolling on top of me and demonstrating the very definition of morning glory.

Our morning sex was more leisurely, not as frenzied as the night before but still passionate, connected, dirty.

I came once while watching his ginger head between my legs and again while straddling him as he gasped my name.

At one point I may have reached for the tan cowboy hat that hung on one of the bedposts. It was the ride of my life.

Eventually other appetites emerged.

‘Breakfast?’ Tom asked as he stood naked at the end of the bed, his tanned body on full display.

I lay admiring the view with the bedsheet rumpled down to my waist. I had no idea what time it was but guessed it must be late morning already. ‘Mmm, I could eat.’

We toyed with ordering room service, the temptation to stay in bed was strong, but once food had been mentioned we both needed sustenance immediately. With little further discussion we pulled on clothes and headed out to find coffee and, hopefully, a full Scottish breakfast.

It looked sunny and warm outside but I only had the navy long-sleeve sweater I’d been wearing the night before.

As I reached for it Tom opened a drawer and threw me a faded red t-shirt with a ‘Nashville – Music City’ logo printed in distressed bronze across the chest. ‘Suits ya,’ he said as I tucked the well-worn, soft fabric into my jeans.

I briefly checked myself in the mirror – tousled hair, flushed pink cheeks and eyes bright and clear – and decided I looked and felt more attractive than I had in years.

In the lift we traded our dream breakfast menu items.

‘Bacon,’ I said.

‘Square sausage,’ he countered.

‘Haggis?’ I asked with a raised eyebrow. Had Tom spent so long in America he’d lost the taste for the spicy, crumbly Scottish delicacy? He nodded vigorously showing his taste buds were tingling at just the thought.

‘Potato scones!’ My final suggestion had Tom licking his lips.

‘You’re a wicked woman, Rebecca Mooney.’

I rewarded that with a brief kiss before the lift doors opened and we left the hotel with my hand resting snugly in Tom’s.

I wasn’t used to walking hand in hand with a man.

Most blokes I’d ever known hated that sort of a PDA.

I also wasn’t used to being called ‘Rebecca’ but I found I was enjoying both unexpected occurrences enormously.

I’d never felt ‘Becky’ suited me all that well.

It sounded like a little girl’s name, one that went with wearing hair in bunches and buckled round-toe sandals.

Some people called me ‘Bex’ but it never really stuck all that well either; while ‘Becky’ felt too silly and girly, ‘Bex’ was too sharp, too harsh.

The way Tom said ‘Rebecca,’ though, made me feel like a new woman.

His way didn’t sound too formal or like a teacher at school about to issue a reprimand.

He rolled the rrr and the name from his lips sounded full bodied and sexy.

I’d never heard my name sound like that before. I liked it.

As we moved together through the streets Tom had a baseball cap covering his tell-tale red hair and was now wearing glasses.

As we exited the lift he’d taken a spectacles case from his jacket pocket and told me they could be a useful disguise.

I suddenly remembered him putting on sunglasses that morning I first saw him at the police station.

I’d thought he was posing but of course he was trying to stop people recognising him.

It had worked pretty well with me! I thought the tortoiseshell frames he wore now suited him well and gave him a bookish air I found very appealing but he said his record company had told him they’d prefer he used contact lenses if his eyesight ever became a problem for real.

Why? Did they think fans wouldn’t accept a singer in spectacles?

I thought that sounded very narrow-minded but I kept that observation to myself.

Since we’d left the bar the night before I hadn’t given much headspace to the fact Tom was famous.

From the moment he’d kissed me the realness of him had pushed the more ephemeral fact of his fame to the edges of my mind.

But back out in the real world I registered it was possible Tom could get recognised at any moment by any passer-by.

I may not have clocked he was the Tom Coltrane when he was large as life in front of me on the steps of the cop shop, and just clocked him on the head instead, but it soon became apparent not everyone was as unobservant as me.

There were a couple of mums with pushchairs at a bus stop who looked twice and then whispered together and then a bloke making a delivery to a shop who did a massive double take.

If he hadn’t had his hands full I was pretty sure that guy might have taken his suspicion he’d just seen a famous music star on George Street a bit further.

Tom kept his head down and his hand in mine as we bowled along at a brisk walk. He was obviously practised at dodging unwanted attention. I kept pace and held on tight. It was clear Tom knew what he was doing and where he was going.