Risking It All by Lucy Oliver Page A

hall opened, sending a welcome shaft of light into the dim room, followed by a man in RAF blue. A stranger. Lynne narrowed her eyes. No, not a stranger.
    “Crikey,” Barbara said. “Look at him.”
    “Close your mouth, you look like a codfish.”
    In the light, he was taller and broader across the shoulders than he used to be, fitting the RAF uniform like a model on a recruitment poster. Billy Jenkins. It had been three years since she last saw him. What was he doing here? And why was he wearing an RAF uniform? Her mother was certain he’d transferred to Special Ops.
    He wove through the rows of trestle tables and chairs, a mug swinging from his fingers. Placing it on the counter, he glanced out the window while Lily filled his cup and pushed it back towards him.
    Lynne jerked her gaze away from his long back and firm bottom. The other girls in the room were staring, mouths open. Barbara wasn’t though. Barbara was looking at her, brow creased as if she suspected something. She couldn’t know anything, surely? Lynne had never mentioned Billy.
    He had been her first love. First, unrequited love—her cheeks flushed as she remembered her humiliation. Well, she wasn’t staying to make polite conversation with him. If she crept out while his back was turned, he wouldn’t see her.
    The chair scraped on the floor when she pushed it back and she froze, but it was too late. He turned and stared straight at her, his blue eyes widening and mouth falling open. Trapped, she gazed back, blood speeding through her chest, heating her skin.
    Picking up the cup, he strode over. “Lynne,” he said.
    Barbara gave a sharp intake of breath.
    “William,” Lynne said. She would be polite, not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt her.
    “Since when did you call me William? And look at me, please.”
    Barbara stood up. “See you later!”
    “Wait,” Lynne said.
    Her friend hurried across the mess hall and Lynne cursed. Billy sat down and put his cup on the table. It was tea, grey and thin. The Billy she knew would never have drunk it; he’d have thrown it away and pulled a flask of spirit from his pocket. Now she watched him lift the mug to his mouth and, with a slight twitch to his lips, gulp. Thin lines traced from his eyes and the corners of his nose.
    “I thought you were in Special Ops,” she whispered.
    His mouth tightened. “No, I’m a pilot.”
    She nodded. Her mother often got things wrong. He looked at the emblem sown to her jacket.
    “An officer,” he said.
    “Wireless.”
    “Do you talk to the aircrew?”
    “Yes. What do you fly?”
    “Spitfires.”
    Of course, he would choose Spits, the glamorous and lethal single pilot fighters. Through her two-way radio, she went with them into battle, directing them towards the enemy planes, and when they plunged to the earth, the men’s screams filled her headphones. Why couldn’t he have done something else? But Billy had always been reckless, the one who jumped off high walls and leapt into deep rivers. He never would have chosen a desk job; he had no fear of death.
    She looked at his shadowed eyes and set mouth, the broad, freckled hand gripping his cup. It trembled with a muscle spasm. He was no longer an exuberant, spirited youth. She swallowed and blinked, snatching her bag from the floor. He must not see her cry.
    “Stay,” he said, and put his hand on hers.
    Lynne jumped. His fingers were warm, palms slightly calloused.
    “I haven’t long, I must get back to work,” she said. “Are you here permanently?”
    He shook his head. “I’m normally at Biggin Hill, but we’ve lost too many planes in bombing raids. I didn’t know you were in the RAF. I thought you were safe at home.”
    “While other people fought?” She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Good luck.”
    “You think I need it?”
    She gave a tight smile and strode across the mess hall. Reaching the door, she had an urge to look back to see if he was watching her. Stupid, why would