“I’d like to see you dressed like a cowboy. A real one, not like those Tony Lama’s-and-embroidered-shirt types.”

“Really? I hadn’t figured you for the cowboy type. I thought you’d want a man dressed like Gordon Gecko. Eight-thousand­ dollar suits and ties made by organic free-range silkworms. Hand- sewn Egyptian cotton shirts.”

“Nah. I just want a man.”

“Any man?”

That stopped Brendan short, leaving his hand hanging in the air as he reached for a Henley T-shirt in a nice shade of olive green. That was odd. Usually the answer to that question was a resounding yes. “Not today, no.”

“I see.”

Brendan rolled his eyes. “You do? I don’t. Don’t take this personally, but usually I just want to hook up. For some reason, the only man I want today is you, Dr. Melovitch.”

“Color me flabbergasted.” Brendan shrugged his shoulders and continued shopping. “And call me Dirk.”

Brendan shuddered. “Honestly? I’m not sure I can say Dirk without laughing. A less Dirk-like person could not exist. Who named you? Clive Cussler? Dirk Melovitch.”

“It does have an odd ring to it. You’re not the first to mention that.”

“So you want to dress up like a cowboy now that you’re not my shrink anymore?”

Worry clouded Dirk’s expression. “Yeah…except…”

“Except what?”

“I think you need a shrink more than you need a cowboy, and if I were any kind of—”

“Don’t.” Brendan stopped him. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s too late for that, and I want you to be my cowboy.”