Page 85 of Shades of You

Brenna and I entered the long stretch of booths facing each other with a wide, grassy aisle between. Face painters, artisans, carnival games made for a fun, raucous atmosphere.

“Looks like there’s a shooting game up there,” I said, pointing to a booth just ahead. “It’s been a while. Wonder if I can still hit anything?” Of course, that was a white lie and Brenna laughed at me. I went to the range regularly.

We stopped at the tent—a row of toy rifles and a series of targets that beckoned challengers. A small crowd cheered, and the competitive spirit was infectious as our two families gathered behind us.

“Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.” Brenna grinned, and her eyes glinted with challenge.

“All right. You asked for it,” I said with mock seriousness. As I stepped up, the familiar itch resurfaced—an old friend from days when my targets had been much more serious. Nerves swirled in my stomach.

Don’t screw this up, Markham.

But when I lifted the play rifle to my shoulder, my bodysettled into the stance that still felt second nature. Relaxing, I aimed down the sights and let out a breath. I squeezed the trigger. The rifle made a sharp crack, and for a moment, everything else faded—the cheers, the music, the smell of the ocean—all of it secondary to the bull’s-eye winking back at me from afar. The bull’s-eye that suddenly had a big black hole in the center.

Behind me, the combined family crowd cheered.

I moved on to the next shot, and the rifle felt like an extension of my arm, a muscle memory from years of experience guiding each movement. I took aim, and the trigger gave way beneath my finger, resulting in another hole in another target’s center. Three more followed in quick succession as I adjusted to the toy rifle. Each bullet met its mark, and our assembled family erupted in applause that rippled through the warm June air.

“I’d say you’ve still got it.” Brenna laughed, her eyes alight with an admiration that made my chest puff up.

“What, you doubted me?”

“Never for a second.”

“Choose your prize,” the game attendant announced, gesturing to the array of stuffed animals and trinkets that adorned the booth’s shelves.

I gestured grandly to Brenna, and her gaze swept over the prizes. I tried not to exhale in relief when her attention snagged on one particular item—a whimsical bookworm with oversized glasses perched on its plush face and a tiny book clutched in its soft limbs. The plush figure I’d given to the booth attendant hours ago.

Her eyes sparkled as she jabbed a finger at it. “That one! That little bookworm is just too cute.”

“I’d say that one’s perfect for you,” I agreed, reaching out and claiming the prize from the attendant.

“Here you go,” I said, handing the stuffed animal to her with another flourish. “A worthy addition to your bookshop, milady.”

“Thank you,” Brenna said, her eyes dancing as she hugged the bookworm close. “I love it!”

Holding it out again, Brenna’s fingers danced around the edges of the tiny book clutched in the bookworm’s limbs.

“It looks like the book opens,” I said, nudging her softly.

With a curious tilt of her head, Brenna obliged and unfolded the small cover. The moment froze, a soft breeze playing with her light brown hair as her eyes widened in unguarded astonishment at what lay inside.

“Is this what I think it is?” Her voice trembled, and her eyes glistened as they met mine.

“Only if you think it’s a ring.”

My attempt at nonchalance failed spectacularly. Every muscle in my body wanted to twitch, and I resisted the urge to wipe my hands on my shorts. A collective gasp rose from our families behind us when realization dawned.

Taking a breath that seemed to draw in the whole of the earth’s atmosphere, I plucked out the ring. The sun caught on the diamond and scattered prisms of light across her perfect, gorgeous face. I dropped to one knee on the soft meadow grass, my gaze locked with hers.

“Brenna Coleridge,” I said, my voice steady and sure, “you’ve done something no one else could. You brought together two families who were more used to feuding than friendship. You’ve shown them—shown me—what it means to feel whole again.”

Her hands flew to her mouth, stifling a sob, and I continued, pouring every ounce of my truth into the words. “You are the peace after the storm. You’re the reason I believe in second chances.” The crowd hushed, and a blanket ofexpectancy draped over us as I reached for her hand and slid the ring on. “I love you more than the depths of the ocean that surrounds us. Will you marry me?”

Tears shimmered in Brenna’s eyes as she stared at the ring, then lifted her gaze to mine. “Of course,” she called out, her voice clear and resolute as a bell’s chime. “Yes, Hunter. One hundred times, yes!”

As cheers erupted around us, the applause cascaded from one end of the meadow to the other. Two families, once divided by old grudges, now stood united, their clapping hands and joyful shouts echoing around us.

“Who would’ve thought?” Brenna said, her voice tinged with amazement as she glanced at our families. “The Coleridges and Markhams cheering for the same cause!”

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