Asleep From Day by Margarita Montimore #BlogTour with #Giveaway @damiella @Barclay_PR

Boy meets girl. Girl meets windshield, forgets boy
Girl starts to remember, looks for boy

Boy might not be real...

A girl who can’t remember. A book you won’t forget.
From debut author Margarita Montimore.

Astrid can't remember the best day of her life: yesterday. 

A traumatic car accident erases Astrid s memories of September 9th, the day she spent with an oddly charming stranger named Theo. Ever since, she's been haunted by surreal dreams and an urgent sense that she's forgotten something important. 

One night, she gets a mysterious call from Oliver, who knows more about her than he should and claims he can help her remember. She accepts his help, even as she questions his motives and fights a strange attraction to him. 

In order to find Theo and piece together that lost day in September, Astrid must navigate a maze of eccentric Boston nightlife, from the seedy corners of Chinatown to a drug-fueled Alice-in-Wonderland-themed party to a club where everyone dresses like the dead. 

In between headaches and nightmares, she struggles to differentiate between memory, fantasy, and reality, and starts to wonder if Theo really exists. Eventually, she ll need to choose between continuing her search for him or following her growing feelings for Oliver. 

Astrid might go to extreme lengths to find what she's lost... or might lose even more in her pursuit to remember (like her sanity).

On Sale Now:

"This book ticked all my boxes: unusual narrative structure, setting as a character, witty banter, and whip-smart writing... I loved it, and I'll be thinking about it for a long time."
— Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone
“Every part of this book was confidently crafted to create this dreamy, charismatic experience of being utterly submerged in a mystery and desperately seeking truth.”
— Michelle Hazen, author of A Cruel Kind of Beautiful
Outside a pizza place is a pay phone. Who else can I call? Hand on receiver, before I can decide, the phone rings. I pull back, like I’ve been burned.

Briiiiiing!!! Briiiiiing!!!

There’s absolutely nobody around, no one who might be waiting for a call.


“Hello?” Why am I answering the phone? It’s not like—


If déjà vu is a feather down the spine, this sensation is a razor.

I must have misheard.

“Astrid, are you there?” The same male voice from my dream, the static now on my end in the form of the noisy downpour.

“Who is this?” I ask. “How did you know I would answer the phone?”

Before he replies, tranquility trickles into my veins like one of those lovely drugs pumped into me at the hospital. Of course. There’s no need to worry about any of it. This is just another dream.

“You’ll find out who I am soon enough,” he says. “There are more important things you need to deal with first.”

“Sure there are. Like what kind of snack I’ll have when I wake up.”

A pause on his end. “You’re not dreaming, Astrid.”

It stops raining, abruptly.

“The car accident, the fire, your friend’s overdose,” he continues, “All of those are real things.”

“Who are you? You’re scaring me.” I look around, expect to see someone lurking in a dark trench coat.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have called. But I wanted... to reassure you, tell you you’ll get through this. I’ll be able to help you more later on.

Margarita Montimore received a BFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. She worked for over a decade in publishing and social media before deciding to focus on the writing dream full-time. She has blogged for Marvel, Google, Quirk Books, and When not writing, she freelances as a book coach and editor. She grew up in Brooklyn but currently lives in a different part of the Northeast with her husband and dog.

Margarita writes upmarket/literary fiction that tends to be left of center and flirt with multiple genres. While she loves all things dark, strange, and surreal, she’s also optimistic—verging on quixotic—and a pop culture geek, so her work tends to incorporate all those elements to varying degrees.

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