Love comes in many different shades. Sometimes it’s consuming and violent, other times it’s goofy and messy, and sometimes it’s sweet and perfect.

Hollywood, of course, loves every single gradient—from love triangles, to long-distance romance, to a teenage lust you could only hope for. And sometimes they even love a quirky, finding-love-when-you-least-expect-it kind of romance, as in the case of Fangirl.

The limo picks us up at 3 p.m., and we drive for what seems like a million miles. As soon as we get to LA, the drive becomes even slower because streets are closed off everywhere.

A block before our destination, we are brought to a stop and the car is searched, and then we’re in the home stretch. Excitement flutters like pinwheels all around me. I can’t believe we’re here. All I can do is squeeze Brooklyn’s hand and look out the window in wonder.

Giant, twenty-four-foot-high twin golden Oscar statues loom large outside the Dolby Theatre, and suddenly I can’t feel my hand because Brooklyn is squeezing it so tightly. It’s hard to believe we’re here. Here where all the eyes of the world are focusing on those statues with the most anticipated ceremony of the year just minutes away from commencing.

My heart feels like it’s pumping out of my chest. I glance over at him and smile. He looks so nervous. Covering our connected hands with my free one, I mouth, “I love you.” His free hand covers mine and he mouths it back, and he finally gives me a small smile.

Before I know it, we’re exiting the car. Someone pushes a ticket into Brooklyn’s hand to get the car back later, and he shoves it into his pocket. I shade my eyes and look toward my right. It’s so unreal. The sea of black limousines can be seen for miles and miles. Photographers, too. Flashes going off like mad as they attempt to capture every step each star takes. And stars are everywhere. All stopping to pose, with their hair done perfectly, their fancy clothes, and their designer shades, every woman looks like a princess and every man a prince.

Glamor and sophistication are everywhere. I feel like I want to blow glitter—that’s how happy I am.

I look over toward Brooklyn, my brother, and Keen, and realize none of us has any idea what to do now.

Within moments, a woman wearing a headset and a black pantsuit asks, “Brooklyn?”

He nods, and the woman introduces herself, adding, “I just came back from walking Emma through. What a nice coincidence. Would you like me to take your party through?”

“Yes, that would be fantastic,” he answers.

She glances down at her clipboard. “Would you like to walk past the cameras?”

For only a moment he hesitates before responding, “Yes.”

All together, we take a few steps and head into the throng. The four of us are so nervous, not a single one of us utters a word.

No jokes.

Or backslaps.

Or jabs.

Just wobbly legs that bring us closer to our destination with every single step we take. The closer we get, the more my gaze wanders, and I take in even more of my surroundings. To the left of me are large grandstands that have been set up to allow spectators a view of everyone exiting their cars curbside, and then beginning their walk toward the auditorium.

Every one of the spectators gawks and gasps as we make our way up the red carpet. I watch as the stars in front of us run the gauntlet of photographers, stopping for a pose every now and then. Some stop to give interviews to the horde of TV news crews and entertainment reporters along the way, and others pass right by to enter the tent and go through security before entering the theater.

The attentive press ravishes Brooklyn. The prince of Hollywood is on the red carpet, and this time not as a guest of either of his famous parents. This is all him, and Hollywood loves their royalty. After all, the four of us are at the Academy Awards for three very good reasons.

Number one: Fangirl has been nominated for Best Original Screenplay. Number two: Chase Parker has been nominated for Best Actor. And number three: Emma Fairchild has received a nomination for directing.

When Entertainment Tonight asks me what I am wearing, my nerves take flight. But then I look at my dress and smile. I’m wearing a red strapless dress with white embroidered scripting all over it. Jordan Cartwright, the head designer for Simon Warren, made it especially for me. The scripted lines are movie quotes from Fangirl. I answer, and I know this is huge for Simon Warren because my brother can’t stop beaming.

At the bend in the red carpet we pause. More cameras flash. Brooklyn has his arm around me, and we pose just like those in front of us did.

Adoring fans are shouting how much they loved Fangirl. Press is asking if there will be a sequel. Brooklyn smiles, waves, poses, and answers every question with the confidence that attracted me to him from the moment he found me on the front porch of my brother’s house.

The red carpet ends and we are escorted into the security tent, where we have to show our identification.

As we wait to move along to the next step in the security line, Brooklyn’s hand cinches my waist and he leans forward. His clean scent assaults me and my head automatically turns toward him. When I do, his mouth skims over my jawline and his lips brush lightly over my skin.

Pressing his front to my back, he nips at my earlobe, eliciting a full-body shiver that sends chill bumps racing across my flesh, and whispers, “I am so fucking you in this dress when we get home.”

Whoa. That sounds so…delicious. I twist a little more and bend my knee, allowing the slit of my dress to open and one of my super-high sandals to show. “With my shoes on?” I ask huskily, the excitement clear in my voice.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs. “Definitely with your shoes on. In fact, they’ll be the only thing you’re wearing when you scream my name.”

The line starts moving and our dirty talk is put on hold for what undoubtedly is the biggest night of Brooklyn’s life.

Nervous himself, he takes my hand and escorts me through the maze of people. He looks incredibly handsome in his tux, as do Keen and Cam.

Getting the three of us inside took some major string pulling on Brooklyn’s mother’s part.

Sadly, Makayla and Maggie couldn’t attend—not enough tickets—but they are at home with Presley, who is walking and gets into everything now. Television will have to do it for them.

The Dolby Theatre has a ground floor and, above that, three mezzanines. I look up to the never-ending ceiling. This place is huge, and so elegant. Shiny stage, lights everywhere, and seats for miles and miles.

Amid the array of dresses, tuxes, and champagne flutes is a lot of Hollywood chatter. Mostly about which commercial break is best for making a run to the bar. That makes me giggle.

There is a crush to get in, as a disembodied voice tells us urgently that the Academy Awards will start in five minutes.

Finding our row, Brooklyn squeezes my hand even tighter. He is now so visibly nervous that I wish I could sit on his lap and distract him by placing kisses all over his face. Obviously, I can’t, so I squeeze his hand and whisper, “You got this.”

We sit way in the back with the rest of the unknowns. Brooklyn sits to my left, Cam to my right, and Keen to Brooklyn’s left. The four us are intermixed with the entire team from Fangirl.

Emma turns from the row in front of us and gives both her sons a warm smile. Taking Brooklyn’s hands, tears glimmer in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, with genuine excitement in her voice.

He squeezes her hand back.

“I love you, Son,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too, Mom,” he says.

The gap that formed between Brooklyn and his mother over his teen years has been slowly closing. And now she, too, joins us for Sunday dinners. Brooklyn’s father, on the other hand, asked for a role in the movie. And although due to Brooklyn’s urging he was cast as Kellan’s father, he never made it to the first rehearsal.

With the knowledge that his father has to want to help himself, Brooklyn has accepted that he can’t be responsible for Todd James. And also no longer fears following in his footsteps. With that, a huge burden has been lifted from his broad shoulders.

Suddenly, the music begins, lights flash, the curtain lifts, and a voice announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, at Hollywood and Highland, it’s the Oscars.”

There’s a slight pause, and Brooklyn wipes the hand I’m not holding down the front of his pant leg. He leans over and says, “I’m here because of you, and regardless of what happens tonight, that is what I will always remember.”

As this year’s host makes his appearance by running onstage in a pair of jams with sunblock below his eyes and a surfboard under his arm, everyone in the audience reacts positively and screams loudly.

The host erupts into song, a parody of all the movies being presented this year.

With my fingers crossed, I hold on tight to Brooklyn’s hand when the first movie star walks out onto the stage to present the Best Supporting Actor award. Next up is Best Supporting Actress.

The host comes back out onstage, now in a tuxedo, and tells us how the nominees become winners. And then two movie stars come out to present Best Original Screenplay. They start by telling us writers are the backbone of the industry, and everyone applauds. They add, “And we also think you are all extremely hot.” Everyone chuckles, but I don’t laugh; instead I think, Don’t you know it.

One of the actresses announces, “Here are this year’s nominees for Best Original Screenplay.”

Five typical Hollywood-type manuscripts flash across the screen and then the room goes utterly quiet.

“And the Oscar goes to…” the other actress says into the microphone as she pulls the paper out of the envelope. “Fangirl, Brooklyn James.”

“Holy shit,” he whispers, in a state of shock.

“Oh, my God!” I squeal, tears streaming down my face.

Applause explodes and so does my heart. Still in a state of shock, he turns to kiss me, then to his brother, who hugs him fiercely, and then back to me.

Flashes go off all around us as the music explodes, and as Brooklyn stands he slips a small velvet box from his pocket and sets it on my lap. Leaning down, his voice is raspy and charged at the same time. “This is because of you, Amelia Waters, and I want to spend the rest of our lives writing our story.”

Hurrying up to the stage, he is handed the Oscar. Standing there in a daze, he looks around, humbled, and the love and support of Hollywood surrounds him.

Up at the microphone he starts, stops, then starts again. “There are so many people I need to thank for this,” he says, and then goes on to thank Ryan Gerhardt, Blake Johnson, Chase Parker, his brother, his best friend, the producers, the cast, the crew. He pauses. “And I want to thank my mother, Emma Fairchild, for showing me you have to work for what you deserve.”

The music starts to cue for a wrap-up and Brooklyn holds his hand up. “I have one more person I need to thank, and that’s the love of my life. Without her, I wouldn’t be here tonight, and I hope when she opens the box I left on her lap, she says yes, and agrees to be mine forever.”

Everyone turns in my direction, and my cheeks flame. There are loud cheers and yells of congratulations, but I shut it all out and focus on the one man heading back in my direction.

Tall and handsome, beautiful and amazing, my Prince Charming approaches me, and rather than take his seat, he sets the Oscar on it, gets on one knee in the crowded theater, and opens the velvet box he had set in my lap minutes ago. “Will you marry me? Be my princess forever and ever?”

I look at the sparkling ring. “Oh, Brooklyn. Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

The host talks to the audience, and we’re no longer the focus as the ceremony moves along.

My attention, though, is on Brooklyn as he takes the ring from the box and slips it on my shaking finger. “I promise,” he says, “that we will live happily ever after.”

I throw my arms around him and whisper into his ear, “I have no doubts that we will.”

Some fairy tales start with you kissing a frog, and then another, and another, too. Some start with you going in search of your Prince Charming, and hoping like hell that you find him. And some fairy tales start with you stumbling upon Mr. Oh-So-Wrong, who was actually your Hollywood Prince all along.

You just didn’t know it.

But you do now.

And isn’t that the best ending a princess could ever ask for?

I think so.