I’m literally on the edge of my seat as I watch Roan sit and start noodling around with the guitar.
He’s a big man—he makes the chair look small and the guitar look like a child’s toy. But his fingers dance tenderly on the strings, and what begins as a gentle warmup rolls seamlessly into a familiar chord progression.
When Roan closes his eyes and sings the first line of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” I can barely breathe.
His deep voice is husky and sweet. And the way it blends with the notes of the guitar is mesmerizing. Hecould probably sing professionally if he wanted to. But what holds me captive is more than just the beauty of his voice.
Roan sings with his whole heart. I feel an ache in my chest just listening. I’ve always loved this song, but his gentle, haunting version reminds me of the longing in the simple melody.
When he reaches the chorus again, he opens his eyes and he’s gazing right into mine.
I can feel the emotion from across the auditorium. It’s like we’re alone, and he’s telling me that I’m his home, that wherever I am, that’s where Christmas is for him.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks.
Too soon, the song is over and Roan stands.
The whole crowd goes wild, but Roan doesn’t bow or even wave. He just lifts the strap over his head, crouches to replace the guitar in its case, then heads back down into the audience with all the fanfare of a plumber heading out with his tools after fixing a sink.
“Wow,” the mayor says breathlessly as he returns to the spotlight. “That gave me chills, how about you?”
The crowd roars their approval, but I don’t join them because Roan has given the guitar back to his brother, and now he’s heading over to me.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says as he reaches our row.
I’m on my feet in a heartbeat.
“I’ll text you,” Darcy whispers.
I barely have time to wave to her before Roan takes my hand and marches me out of the auditorium like I’m a naughty child on the way to be punished.
“Roan,” I murmur.
“Not until we get out of here,” he growls.
“But that was beautiful,” I can’t help saying out loud. “I didn’t know you could play at all, or sing, let alone?—”
“Taylor,” he says firmly.
We reach the empty lobby at last, and I can just hear trumpets and drums starting up back in the auditorium—it must be band kids doing a number next.
But we aren’t sticking around for it. Roan is heading for the door and since my hand is wrapped in his, I’m headed there too.
At last, we’re outside. The cold breeze feels good on my warm cheeks.
“Okay?” I ask him, looking up.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine.”
But we’re still walking pretty fast. I guess he wasn’t kidding about leaving. We’re headed for his truck.
“Roan, that was amazing,” I tell him, trying not to go overboard since he weirdly doesn’t seem to want applause or praise.
“My brother just likes to embarrass me,” Roan says.
“Your playing is beautiful,” I tell him again. “And your voice is incredible.”
“My mom made me sing in church choir when I was a kid,” he says with a shrug.
